


There And Back Again (And Again, And Again...)

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens AUs [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dwarf Crowley, Eventual Pregnant Aziraphale, F/M, Family Drama, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Forbidden Romance, Gossip, Hobbit Aziraphale, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Romance, Scandalous behaviour in The Shire, Secret Relationship, Tolkien AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Crowley only came to the Shire hoping to make a little extra coin (and avoid the dreaded mine shifts back home) — but, by sheer dumb luck, he found himself a better reason to keep on coming back. Her name was Aziraphale.(Female Hobbit Aziraphale/Dwarf Crowley Tolkien AU)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley
Series: Good Omens AUs [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663576
Comments: 287
Kudos: 273
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side





	1. Silvertongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a prompt from a friend for a Dwarf Crowley and Hobbit Aziraphale fic and snowballed from there — it’s been great fun though! Enjoy xx

Aziraphale was a hobbit. Not a nasty, gossipy, vindictive creature, no; that would be mistaking her for her sister-in-law, Lobelia. Aziraphale was a soft soul, and that meant quiet evenings by the fire, good tea, and plenty of books. She stayed away from poisonous words whenever she could, and preferred to keep herself to herself. Her smial (a local term for hobbit-holes) was comfortable and quaint, not far from her cousin Bilbo's luxurious home, Bag-End. She had no cause to be envious, of course. She had money to spare, and was never caught with a half-stocked pantry, nor a single blemish on her brown-and-cream wardrobe. There was one slight downside to her nearly-perfect life, however.

She had just come home from a stroll in the fields when there was an insistent knocking at the door. She huffed, closing her eyes for a moment in annoyance. Those vultures had probably been watching out their windows, waiting for her to come home! She stomped toward the door, with half a mind brandish her umbrella in their face and tell them to bugger off. 

"Hello, there," she said politely, her face betraying no sign of murderous intent as she opened the door. "Can I help you?"

"Ah! Not so much that, Miss Sackville-Baggins, but I was wonderin' if you had anything you might need a hand with," said her neighbour, a slightly less well-off hobbit from down the road, who’d had his eye on the bachelorette (and all her land and wealth) for months now. He peered over her shoulder appraisingly at the books strewn across every surface of the smial. "A little tidyin' up, perhaps? It might give us a chance to get to know one another better."

"No, dear sir, that's quite alright. I like my home the way it is," she replied, already half-closing the door. "Everything has its place."

"Might I invite myself in for a — ?"

"No!" Aziraphale called, closing the door, and finally allowing herself to roll her eyes. The nerve! It was almost like they didn't think she knew what they were up to. She had many a conniving suitor sniffing around her door these days, asking half-casual questions about how she was managing all on her own in that _big lonely smial_ , and making thinly veiled comments about their own availability. It didn't help, of course, when they acted as if she was being ungrateful — scornful, even! — when she declined their advances. 

She took off her spectacles and sighed in annoyance. They were much too shallow for her tastes. It was bad enough when her brother Otho had gone and married that gossiping wench Lobelia; Aziraphale didn't want to start bringing any more self-important leeches into the family! She had resolved long ago that if there was nobody in all of Hobbiton who could satisfy _her_ needs (a category in which she counted love, companionship, and more, ah... horizontal endeavours) as well as she could satisfy theirs, then she would spent her whole life alone. Better to love oneself in solitude than have to learn to do it in spite of someone else. Cousin Bilbo seemed to understand, at least; Bag-End attracted many a shallow hobbit to try their luck at wooing him. The two like-minded cousins enjoyed meeting on quiet afternoons sometimes, for a bite to eat and a good old whinge at Lobelia's expense. He was more of a brother to Aziraphale than Otho had ever been.

She spent a while organising some books, just to be sure that her ill-meaning suitor had disappeared, before gathering a tea tray with some sandwiches and stepping out into her garden. It was a modest affair, just enough for a small seating area near the door, a small lawn, and some flowerbeds overlooking the rolling hills and the distant shape of the Blue Mountains far to the west. She settled down, nursing her teacup and pondering the view. She could see where they got their name, cast in a blue haze that only the horizon could paint. Afternoon sauntered by, in the way they all did in that peaceful country village. As Aziraphale watched the birds flutter by, and the flowers near her fence sway, she noticed distant pinpricks on the road. She tilted her head. It seemed there were travellers heading this way; a large band of them, by the looks of it. 

"How novel," she murmured, wondering who these outsiders might be. They would pass by her door, if they came into Hobbiton; hers was the only fine home to sit on the main thoroughfare, near the edge of town. Perhaps these travellers were just passing through — and if that was it, then all the better. She'd heard terrible rumours about the world beyond the Shire. She wasn't always sure how much to believe, but it paid to be cautious. 

She leant back in her chair and shut her eyes for a while, enjoying the cool breeze. She didn't notice that one silhouette had broken out ahead of the travelling party at an erratic pace, zigzagging up the road toward the village. When she heard her neighbours shout, she assumed it was some dispute about the overhang from another garden's tree — again. She ignored it. It was only when she heard the thundering of hooves that she realised something could be amiss and, by then, the figure was already upon her. 

She opened her eyes, lurching in surprise as a wild-eyed pony clattered to a halt near her fence, tossing its head and rearing up, its ebony hooves pawing the air. The dwarf on its back cursed, with only half a grip on the reigns. The pony snorted, whinnied, and bucked. That did the trick. The dwarf yelled as the saddle finally vanished from under him, leaving him in free fall for a heart-stopping moment... before landing face-first on Aziraphale's garden path with a heavy thud. 

"Ugghh..." he groaned, limp against the stone. 

"Good gracious! Are you alright?" cried Aziraphale, leaping up from her chair, hovering anxiously at a distance from the impromptu visitor. He mumbled something incoherent against the ground. "Um — pardon me, what was that? Oh fff — fudge, is your jaw broken?"

Finally, the dwarf got his hands underneath him, and pushed himself off the ground, into a kneeling position. "Yep. Fine. Nothing broken. M’alright," he said with a wince, trying desperately to play it off like he’d meant for it to happen. Aziraphale blinked, taken aback that a face could still be so handsome after being slammed so hard into a slab of granite. His nose, far from being bent at a funny angle, didn't even have so much as a smear of blood under it, and there were certainly no teeth littering the ground either. His long red hair fell in braids and waves over his shoulders, framing the short auburn beard covering the lower half of his hawkish face. 

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed before she could quite catch herself. She cleared her throat and shook her head, quickly clearing it. "You're, um... quite sturdy, then."

"M'a dwarf. That’s our thing, sturdy," he said, pulling himself to his feet and straightening out his dark tunic, which was clasped with a serpent-buckle belt. Aziraphale's stomach flipped as he towered over her, though she was shamefully aware that it wasn't out of fear. He must be at least five feet tall! He was broad and lean, just like she’d thought a dwarf would be, though she wasn’t to know that he was actually quite lanky compared to his fellow-dwarves. A sudden curiosity gripped her.

"Do you need to sit down?" she blurted out, gesturing at the two garden chairs behind her. "It's — It's just — well, that was quite a tumble. Your poor noggin."

The dwarf grimaced. "There's no way that's a word," he muttered, glancing down the road. His pony was nowhere in sight, and his travelling companions were making no attempt to quicken the pace after him. They were probably having a good laugh at his expense already. He sighed. He’d never hear the end of this. "Yeah, alright. Go on then."

The chair muttered under his weight as he collapsed into it, not built for the stocky frame of a dwarf. He dragged a hand over his face as Aziraphale settled beside him, watching him with shameless fascination. "Sorry, what did you say your name was?" she asked. 

"Uh. Crowley," he said, inclining his head slightly, fiddling with his silver neck-chain. "Crowley Silvertongue."

Aziraphale couldn't help but arch a brow. "Silvertongue?" she said with a note of amusement. Crowley frowned. 

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that, well... You weren't exactly the picture of eloquence just now," she said with a wry gesture to the garden path. The dwarf drew himself up indignantly. "But forgive my ignorance. I'm sure you could charm the crown from a king's head."

"Maybe I could!" he said. "You don't know."

"I see... Where does this clever epithet come from, then, I wonder, O silver-tongued dwarf?" she said with an amused sip of her tea. 

Crowley scowled. In all honestly, his moniker had been slightly sarcastically assigned. He was always talking his way out of things, whether it be work, or trouble, or the corner he'd talked himself into in the first place. "Don't see how it's any of your business," he said eventually, wrinkling up his nose and trying to project nonchalance. "Very secretive, us dwarves. Mysterious. Couldn't tell you even if I wanted to."

"How convenient," she replied with a chuckle. 

"Hmph. What's your name, then?" he asked. "Since you think mine's so funny."

"Aziraphale Sackville-Baggins," she replied with a note of distaste. "Not that I did anything to deserve it. Born into it, I'm afraid."

He tilted his head in confusion. "Uh... not good?"

"Well-known for gossip, greed and arrogance, and not much besides," she said. She gestured down the road vaguely at the neighbours. "I'm proudly the black sheep of the family."

Crowley hummed, wondering how true that was, when a curious face appeared on the road. Aziraphale immediately slumped a little. "Ah. Hello again, Mr Phon," she said with a strained smile. He was another suitor who only saw her as a rung on the social ladder. He'd been bothering her that morning, trying to pressure her into his smial for second breakfast. "Lovely afternoon, isn't it?"

"Yes. Who is this stranger in your garden?" he asked suspiciously. Crowley quirked a brow, his expression quickly souring. 

"Oh, he just... dropped in," Aziraphale replied airily, breaking through Crowley's indignation and forcing a snort of laughter through his nose. Aziraphale shot him a sly side-glance. "I see no need to be inhospitable to strangers, now, do you?"

"Forgive my concern, Miss Sackville-Baggins... A lady can never be too careful around strange men," he said, with an ironically greasy smile. 

Aziraphale stared back humourlessly. She barely even tried to feign politeness as she replied. "Yes, I'm quite inclined to agree, Mr Phon," she said, and made no move to ask Crowley to leave. She already trusted this vagrant dwarf far more than she trusted her sleazy neighbour. "Good afternoon."

Sensing he was no longer welcome, he returned her tight smile. "Afternoon, then."

Crowley watched the hobbit wander back down the road and out of sight again before giving a long whistle. "I'd heard your lot were funny about outsiders, but I didn't realise they were..." he said, trailing off with a vague gesture at the empty road, scrunching up his face. 

"Yes, well. I imagine he was hoping to swoop in and rescue me from your lecherous clutches, like the damsel-in-distress I am," she said, her voice thick with sarcasm, rolling her eyes. Sensing Crowley's confusion, she sighed, putting aside her bitterness and patting him gently on the arm. She was surprised to find his arm as solid as stone beneath her palm, and she tried not to think too hard about the muscle that must lie beneath that black fabric. "Don't mind me. Half the men on this lane have a mind to marry me, and I'm rather sick of it all."

"Ah. None that take your fancy, then?" he said, nodding as if he understood, when that really couldn't be farther from the truth. By dwarf standards, Crowley was fairly hideous. He was wiry and noticeably narrower than other dwarrow and, most humiliating of all, his beard wasn't even long enough to braid. He was lucky that romance was not a default fact-of-life among his people, or he'd feel very left-out. As it stood, like most other male dwarves, Crowley expected he'd go to his grave having never had a wife. That didn't mean he didn't sometimes wonder about it, though. 

"The most handsome hobbit in all the world could propose to me, but if all he wanted was my wealth and status then I'd throw my tea in his face and turn him out on his ear," she said, holding her head high in open defiance, fully expecting Crowley to reproach her for being too scornful, like most men did. 

Crowley stared at her with a slack-jawed smile. "Brilliant," he said, running his eyes over her a second time. Everything about her screamed pride and self-respect, from her brown pencil skirt all the way up to the tartan bow-tie keeping the high neck of her shirt-collar shut. Her posture was flawless. Her hair, a colour Crowley could only compare to mithril, was tied back in a neat bun from which two curly strands escaped and hung by her ears... He didn't know what hobbits called beautiful but, by his standards, this was it. 

Aziraphale blinked. "Pardon?" she asked with a pout, certain she was being mocked for a moment. 

"Brilliant," Crowley repeated, quickly taking his eyes away and watching the rapidly approaching shapes of his travelling party. "That's — That's the way, isn't it? In love. Proper love."

"Yes, I... I have always thought so," she said quietly, taken aback. She took a long sip of her tea. There was a moment of awkward silence where they both felt suddenly out of their depth, for reasons that neither of them had the guts to address. "Are, um... Are you in Hobbiton for long, or just passing through?"

"Uh. We're hanging about for a while. Bringing wares to trade, that sort of thing," he said, trying to get a grip on his composure again. "Things are rough in the mountains. We heard the market down here is s'posed to be popular. Figured the trip would be worth it for a bit of extra coin."

Aziraphale nodded along amiably. "The market is quite marvellous, yes. It draws people from all around. You'll do very well out of it, I'm sure," she said. "And if times are hard, well... perhaps I shall have to brave the crowds and see if I can't make a little contribution, too."

Crowley chuckled. "Thought you didn't like men who came sniffing around for your cash."

Aziraphale tutted, but a smile tugged at her lips. "Well, I never. I suppose I did offer, though, didn't I?" she murmured, almost to herself, in good humour. She shot him a wry look that made his heart do an odd backflip. "Perhaps there is something to this Crowley Silvertongue business after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to take this opportunity to recommend another Good Omens Tolkien AU fic: Dragonfire by CandyQueenAO3. It’s my absolute favourite Good Omens/Tolkien fic — excellent characterisation, great blend of the two worlds, and just an all-round fantastic read!


	2. The First Goodbye

Crowley's mind kept circling back to the hobbit he'd met on that first afternoon in town. He'd left her to meet his comrades as they neared the lane, joining them to search for an inn that would take them. Turned out, hobbits weren’t as accommodating as they’d hoped to large groups of strangers, and they wound up getting banned from local inn. He was only half-listening. He didn't realise they'd been turned out of town until they were setting up camp in a nearby meadow, muttering about the inhospitable villagers. He happily joined in the complaining. At least grasses felt better than mountain stone under a sleeping mat. Still, the ground made for a lumpy mattress and a sore back. 

Being kicked awake for the early shift on the market stall didn't help matters, either. He rolled out of bed, swatting at thin air, trying to block the pre-dawn light streaming through the clouds. Who started a market this early, anyway? It was bloody ridiculous. He'd eat his belt if there was so much as a gaggle of hobbits up at the stalls at this hour. 

He would, as it turned out, be chewing leather, because there were already hobbits and visiting humans gathered in the market square by the time he arrived. He huffed, and dragged over their trestle table to begin setting up. Why was he here, again...? Oh yeah. He was still dodging mine duty. He'd never fancied spending months on end below ground without so much as a news-sheet from the surface, so overly chirpy country-folk would have to do. His colleague laid out their wares on the table with care; there could be worse dwarves to spend stupid-o-clock with than Bofur, he supposed. 

"Cheer up, Crowley," said Bofur, giving him a pat on the back. "There's worse places to be on a summer's morning."

He grunted. "Better places, too. Like my bed."

"You'd never leave that bed if you didn't have to earn a wage," he said, chuckling. He grinned at a passing farmer, who glowered in return. "It's a good life that keeps your hands busy, that's what I always say."

"Say that to my foot," he said under his breath. He leaned heavily on the table, his yellow eyes lazily scanning the ever-thickening crowd. He caught a flash of a white coat in the throng. He stood up straighter. A familiar face pushed her way through and, for the first time, Crowley noticed that Aziraphale was quite tall for a hobbit. She stood at an impressive four feet tall; still a foot shorter than Crowley, but eye-catching nonetheless. Bofur noticed the woman approaching their stall, too, and shot Crowley an inquisitive side-glance. 

"Why hello there," Aziraphale said, folding her hands neatly behind her back. "Fancy seeing you again."

"Hm. Ha, yeah," he said, shrugging, feigning nonchalance. He willed Bofur to stay quiet and mind his own business. "Early start for us both."

"Quite. I must say, though, you look awfully tired," she said, noticing the shadows under his eyes and the slump in his shoulders. "Where are you staying?"

"Oh y'know. Around. Nearby," he said, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder in the direction of the campsite. He didn't want to admit he was sleeping rough, not to such a refined woman as Aziraphale. "You?"

"In... In my house," she replied, bemused. Crowley's cheeks heated up as his brain caught up with his mouth. "Where I live."

"Right, yep. Knew that," he said. Bofur pretended to fiddle with one of the figurines on their table, as if he wasn't eavesdropping. "I saw it. S'a good house. Very nice house. Um."

"Perhaps you'd like to pop over for tea, once you're done here," she said with a twinkle of amusement in her eye. Oh, this was going to be marvellous fun. "If you aren't too terribly busy."

He blinked. "Uh. No, not busy," he said, taken off-guard. Bofur shot him a glance, impressed. Every other hobbit in the village seemed to regard them with suspicion, and yet here was a well-to-do hobbit offering Crowley tea! 

"Splendid. Shall we say four o'clock?" she said. Crowley nodded dumbly, trying to lean on the trestle table, though he missed by an inch and stumbled into it instead. Bofur had to bite his tongue to suppress a laugh. The hobbit tutted. "Now, watch out! It would be an awful shame to break one of these little figurines. Did you make them?"

She gently picked up an intricately carved figure of a dwarven smith, his hammer poised over the anvil. Bofur proudly muscled in, beaming. "Ah, that would be my work, actually, my lady," he said. Crowley grumbled some toothless complaint under his breath. "Yours for just a few copper coins."

"Copper?" she said, tilting her head. "Dear me. I only have silver."

Crowley immediately reached for the coin-pouch on his belt. "I think I've got change for — "

"I shall just have to treat myself to one of each. They are darling little things, aren't they?" she continued, cutting across him as she leant down to eye-level with the host of figurines, each carven figure engaged in its own little slice of life. There was one dwarf playing a flute, another poised with a pickaxe, one counting gold coins and another swinging a mighty axe at some unseen foe. She plucked one from the back, and held it up proudly. "Oh, Crowley, look! This one looks like you."

He furrowed his brow as he looked at the figurine. Much like himself, the dwarf had a short beard and long red hair, reclining against a rock with an empty flagon hanging loosely from one hand, and his eyes firmly shut. His mouth hung open in a silent snore. "Uncanny," he said with a suspicious glance at Bofur, who whistled innocently and avoided his eyes. They both knew that Bofur carved his figures from real-life scenes. Crowley just hadn't realised his afternoon nap the other week had been one of them. "You sure you want _this_ one?"

"Absolutely. I think it's very sweet," she said, putting it with the other collection of figures she'd gathered. Crowley curled his lip, biting back a sharp retort. He wasn't sweet. Dwarves weren't sweet! They were gruff and stoic and unflappable, especially to outsiders — so he tried to tell himself. He sulked about it, arms crossed, as Aziraphale and Bofur chattered away about the fine weather while he wrapped her purchases. He expected her to invite Bofur to tea, too — but, to his surprise, she turned to leave with a smile in Crowley's direction and one parting remark:

"I'll see you later, old chap," she said, and then she had vanished back into the crowds. Crowley stared dumbly after her for a moment before he felt someone nudge his shoulder.

"What a fine lady she is," Bofur said, his words thinly veiling some other meaning that Crowley was far too tired to look for. "She had you all in a fluster!"

"S'pose,' he said, refusing to rise to the teasing. 

"It was her garden you face-planted into, wasn't it?" he pressed. Crowley grunted in affirmation. "She must have taken a shine to you, my friend. I hear an invitation to tea isn't lightly given around these parts!"

"Shut up," he said, crossing his arms even tighter. "She's just being nice."

"Aye. Very nice," he said, elbowing him in the ribs. "No shame in being looked after, you know. You'd make a handsome house-husband."

"Oi! Where's that come from?" he said, giving a lurch of surprise. "I barely know the woman! She invited me to tea, she didn't _propose!_ " 

"Oh, at least keep an open mind," Bofur said. "She seems nice, and — er, well, back home there's not many women who... uh..."

"Not many women who'd look twice at a dwarf who's uglier than a warg's arse, only not as hairy?" he shot back cynically, running a hand self-consciously over his short beard. Bofur winced, and opened his mouth to argue, but Crowley waved him off. "Don't. Doesn't matter anyway, does it? I'd never be welcome in the mountains again if I went and married a hobbit."

"Hm. Aye, that's true," he admitted, leaning against the table. He watched his friend's face closely. "Cryin' shame, that."

"Yeah. It is, really," Crowley mumbled, only half-cognisant of his own words, staring blankly into the ever-shifting crowd of hobbits. 

Tea at Aziraphale's was supposed to be a one-off. It honestly was. Aziraphale knew she oughtn't get too cosy with an outsider, and Crowley was thinking along similar lines as she poured the tea and served the cakes. Then, time ran away from them. The light got low, the fire was warm, and Aziraphale started to pour the wine... When Crowley stumbled out of the smial at close to midnight, he knew he'd be coming back the next day. And the next. And every day until he left, actually. 

They fell into a comfortable routine for the four weeks the dwarves stayed in Hobbiton. Crowley had to leave the house early that afternoon, having to return to the others to dismantle the campsite and set out for the mountains again early the next morning. She was certainly disappointed to see him go. She walked him to the end of her garden, and they both glanced down the road, reluctant to move. 

"Should go, really," Crowley said, making no move to set out. 

"Yes, I imagine you'll be busy for the night," she said. Crowley smirked. 

"Not if I can help it," he said. She rolled her eyes. He smiled, and shuffled his feet. "I don't know whether they'll send us back for next season's market. So, uh... if I don't see you again..."

"You have my address," she said, gesturing behind her at the smial. "You're welcome to write."

"Yeah. I'll do that," he said, almost shyly. He stepped back from the fence with one last, lazy wave, his other hand jammed into his pocket. "Bye, Aziraphale."

"Goodbye, my dear fellow," she said warmly, and stood to watch him go. She eventually retreated back inside, checking the clock. She was having supper with cousin Bilbo that night, though she was in a bit of a restless mood, truth be told. She'd miss Crowley's visits. There was something freeing about talking to him, never worrying if her ramblings would be echoed in some other parlour in Hobbiton. He was a sympathetic ear, witty, and the most wonderful bickering-partner Aziraphale had had since her childhood best-friend. She pondered old memories, and new ones, with a nostalgic smile as she finished the last of the afternoon tea and read a few chapters of her favourite book. 

It was only when she went to go and put it away did she trip on something by the sofa. She looked down with a gasp. "Oh dear," she said, picking up the dagger from the floor. It was heavy, with dwarfish runes on the hilt and leather sheath. It must be Crowley's. Had he noticed he'd left it? Possibly not. He'd have a busy night on his hands, and she'd hate for him to forget it. What if it was precious to him? If it held some sentimental value? She glanced at the time. She could make it to and from the dwarves' campsite before supper with Bilbo. It would be a doddle. Crowley would be very grateful, too, and she'd never object to seeing him again before he left. That settled it, really. She had to go. 

She set out along the road, with a nervous glance at the horizon. The sun was dipping lower, and she had to make sure she wasn't late for supper with her cousin. She waved at her neighbour as she passed by, surprised to find them gawking at her like she'd sprouted an extra head. Then, she realised she was obviously carrying a dwarfish dagger as long as her arm, and quickly tried to hide it under her cardigan. She quickened her pace. Oh dear. Word would certainly spread around about that... 

She crested the hill, and carefully picked her way down the dirt road and into the field where the dwarves had camped. The tents had been collapsed now, as no rain clouds were looming, to save them a job in the morning. She glanced back and forth nervously at the edge of the encampment, trying to pick out a familiar face among the broad, stocky figures meandering back and forth to pack their things. She cleared her throat, took a breath, and began to weave in and out among the crowd. A few bumped into her. She stumbled, scowling, barely able to open her mouth to reproach them before they continued on their way. Honestly! These dwarves could stand to learn a thing or two from Crowley about their manners. She held her head high, ignoring the inquisitive and disparaging looks being shot at her, and kept walking. When a large hand landed firmly on her shoulder, she jumped, whirling around to give them a piece of her mind. 

"Oh," she said, relaxing as she saw Crowley's perplexed face. "It's you."

"What are you doing here?" he said, taking her by the shoulder and urging her out of the path of foot traffic. 

"Looking for you!" she replied indignantly. She held the dagger up to him. "You left this behind. I came to return it."

He blinked, taking it gently from her hands. "Right. S'pose I should thank you, then," he said, strapping it safely back to his belt.

She nodded, crossing her arms tightly across her chest to draw her cardigan tight against the chill breeze. "You're welcome. Now, I should be off," she said, but Crowley noticed her shiver. He rolled his eyes and nudged her toward the fire, where a rotund dwarf sat by a cooking pot. 

"What's the rush? At least get warm before you head back," he said. He was an opportunist at heart, and if he could squeeze a few more minutes of her company out of this visit, then he wouldn’t think twice. 

The hobbit tried to protest before she caught a whiff of the food. She stood on the balls of her feet, sniffing the air. "Oh, that smells divine!" she said, drawing a surprised glance from the cooking dwarf. He smiled at her, and she returned it, settling down on a log beside him to ask what spices he'd used. Crowley rolled his eyes and sat beside her, rubbing his hands together and holding them before the fire. First him, then Bofur, now Bombur! She was out to win the heart of every dwarf in the company at this rate. 

Aziraphale's presence didn't go unnoticed by the others. Dwarves began to gather around the fire, curious about the woman who Bombur privileged with the chance to taste-test the rabbit stew he was making. They threw themselves down onto the logs, and Crowley found himself shunted up against Aziraphale's side, drawing a short cry from her. He muttered an apology. Aziraphale didn't to hold it against him. Shoulder to shoulder with him, she could feel the solid muscle beneath his cloak, hard-won from a life of labouring in the mountains. A flutter went through her, and she flushed in embarrassment. Even the local farm-labourers weren’t built quite like this! Crowley didn’t notice her blush, hidden by the half-light. The fireside was soon filled with excitable chatter, loud voices, and the odd bout of music as Bofur played a tune on his flute. Someone started passing flagons of ale around. Aziraphale was surprised when Crowley thrust one into her hands. 

"Oh! There's — um — rather a lot here, Crowley," she said, almost intimidated by it. 

"S'called a pint. They don't serve 'em round here, so we brought our own cups," he said with a grin, taking a swig of his own. He wiped off the foam clinging to his moustache and gestured to her drink. "Well? I'd drink up if I were you, or someone's liable to nick it. _Someone_ might be me."

She huffed, rolling her eyes and taking a long draught from the ale. It was warming and pleasant, no stronger than the ale from the local tavern. She saw no reason she couldn't indulge herself a little. It was rather like a leaving party for Crowley, after all. It would be rude not to take part — and Aziraphale was anything but rude. 

"Now, this is just rude!" said Bilbo, tapping his foot impatiently as he banged on his cousin's door for the third time. She couldn't have forgotten, surely! They'd planned this supper a week in advance. The sun had started to go down now, she still wasn't answering her door, and he hadn't passed her on the way from Bag-End. Where could she be? 

He sighed, thoroughly offended, though he knew most of his annoyance was just misplaced concern. He stormed out of the garden gate, pausing when he spotted Aziraphale's neighbour out in his garden. "Ah, Mr Phon," he said, pausing by the fence. "Good evening. I don't suppose you happened to have spotted my cousin pass by, did you?"

He hummed. "She was running down the lane with a dagger in her hand, last I saw her," he said in a conspiratorial tone. Bilbo gave a start. 

"A dagger!"

He nodded, puffing on his pipe. "Poor woman. Needs someone to keep an eye on her, I'd say," he said. His suggestive tone put Bilbo's hackles up immediately. "If she's any trouble to you, Mr Baggins, I'd be glad to ease your burden — "

"Thank you, Mr Phon, for your concern, but my cousin is no burden — not to me," he said stridently. He didn't like the way the men in Hobbiton eyed up Aziraphale any more than she did. She had always been the sister he'd never had. "If you could just point me in the right direction, I'd be very grateful. I need to speak with her."

He grunted. "She was off towards the vagrants' camp, last I saw," he said with a heavy note of distaste. "The _dwarves."_

Bilbo swallowed hard. He said a hasty thank-you, and set out in that direction, trying to smooth over his worries. He knew about Aziraphale's new friend, of course. The dwarf had been visiting every day, frightening the neighbours with his intimidating presence and sullying his cousin's good name by association. It irked Bilbo if he passed by, and happened to spot those large muddy boots outside Aziraphale's door. He didn't trust that dwarf at all. Maybe years of trying to help his cousin dodge sleazy, shallow marriage proposals had made him overly suspicious on her behalf, but his gut instinct was to suspect Crowley's intentions were something less than honourable. He'd bit his tongue until now, though. He thought Aziraphale would come to her senses on her own. Apparently not! 

He arrived at the camp, finding a knot of dwarves crowded around a fire, singing in raucous voices to a flute-player's tune, with the rhythm kept by their stamping feat. They swayed and lurched, stumbling into one another in a mess of rowdy, half-drunk laughter. The smell of cooked meat, sweat and ale overpowered all else. Bilbo huffed and held his sleeve to his nose as he drew closer to the fire. As he got close enough to see the figures twisting around and clapping to the music in the centre of the crowd, his jaw dropped. 

Aziraphale danced to the strange, un-hobbitlike music, hopping from foot to foot with surprising grace, considering the alcohol on her breath. Crowley — for Bilbo would recognise that sly, grinning face anywhere — circled her, taking her by the hand to spin her in place, her skirt billowing around her legs. She laughed, hooking her arm around Crowley's, dragging them both into a careless, stumbling twirl. She tripped over her own feet, and fell against his chest. He grinned even broader, holding her up as they stared, flushed and breathless, into one another's eyes. A suggestive whistle went up from the crowd. Aziraphale fanned her face, not nearly as embarrassed as she should be, and Crowley cursed over the top of her head in Khuzdul. It was something along the lines of _get lost, Bofur,_ to put it politely. 

Bilbo curled his hands into fists. As if his simmering anger had its own gravity, Aziraphale's eyes slowly rose to see his face lurking in the shadows just beyond the crowd of dwarves. She gasped in sudden realisation. "Crowley, I have to go," she hissed, tugging on his tunic to get his attention. 

"Hm? What? Why? We were just getting started!" he complained, blind to the other hobbit standing just beyond the firelight, or the way his words made him seethe. 

"No, No I — I had forgotten something, I'm terribly late, I really must go," she said, wriggling free from his grip. He didn't try and hold her in place, though he certainly had the strength to, if he'd wanted. 

"Will I see you again?" he called after her, ruefully watching her pale clothes start to meld with the shadows.

"I should jolly well hope so!" she called haughtily over her shoulder, and vanished into the night, leaving Crowley stood by the fire with a dumb, besotted grin. 

Aziraphale hurried to Bilbo, ducking her head sheepishly. "I am terribly sorry, cousin," she said, wringing her hands together, swaying slightly in place, still tipsy. "I — I just popped down to return something of Crowley's, and they are really such lovely people. I'm afraid I lost track of the time."

"Yes, I could see that," he said sourly, setting out back toward town, trusting her to follow along. "What possessed you to think it was a good idea, coming down here on your own? Getting _drunk?_ Who knows what they could have done to you!"

"Now, what's that supposed to mean?" she said, pouting. "I'm barely even tipsy — and they’re merchants, not criminals!"

"Well, it didn't look like a respectable gathering to me," he said sourly. "I worry about you, Aziraphale. It's dangerous, running off at the drop of a hat with a gang of dwarves!"

"I didn't — Bilbo, really! I hardly _ran off_ with them!" she said, then lowered her voice as they passed by a residential lane. "It was Crowley's last night here, and I just thought, well... if I'm not going to see him again for a while..."

He sighed, coming to a halt at his garden gate. He wasn't about to change her mind, and if the dwarves were leaving tomorrow anyway, maybe he had nothing to worry about. She'd be beyond Crowley’s reach, soon. "Let's just settle in and have supper, shall we?" he said, holding open the gate for her. "You need some proper food in your gut before you go to bed tonight."

To her disappointment, Aziraphale didn't see the band of dwarves on their way back to the Blue Mountains. She slept in that morning, oblivious to the lingering stare on her door as Crowley dragged his feet past her home, wondering if he would see her on her porch. He was shoved forward along the road by his compatriots, who laughed and teased him for being sweet on a hobbit. He shook them off, grumbling half-heartedly in protest. 

Five days later, a letter arrived in the postbox at the end of Aziraphale's garden. She didn't recognise the handwriting, and that fact alone filled her with excitement. She had a sneaking suspicion she knew who this was from. She settled in her living room, cracking the clumsy seal, and unfolded the heavy parchment. 

_Dear Aziraphale,_

_Uh, hey. It's me. Crowley. You said I could write, so.... here I am. Writing. I don't really do this much. Things are boring up here, but the returns on the market stall were good. They're talking about sending us down again every season from now on. I put my name down to come again, obviously. The next visit's in two months' time, in case you’re interested. It's not a bad deal, if you ask me, spending the odd few months down there in Hobbiton. The company's brilliant, if you know where to look..._


	3. Lodger

Crowley's seasonal visits became a familiar — and favourite — part of Aziraphale's year. He arrived with the other dwarves each season (though she noticed he seemed to be the only permanent member of the market-vendors), and made a habit of visiting her most days while he was in town. On his third visit, when the winter chill had returned with a vengeance and frost lay upon the ground every morning, Aziraphale took pity on her friend. He turned up on her doorstep shivering most times, and all but crawled into the fireplace once she let him in. She even let him bring his boots inside, to keep them warm. It was no good, sleeping outside in this weather! 

Crowley scoffed, hunched over in front of the fire, when she finally remarked on it. "The likes of us aren't welcome at the inn," he sneered. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, anyway. We live in the mountains. Not exactly balmy up there either."

"All the more reason you ought to have some home comforts now and then," she said. Hobbits were firm believers in soft and comfortable lives. She pursed her lips, staring pensively at the back of Crowley's head from her armchair. "I do have a spare bedroom, you know."

He twisted around with a furrowed brow. "Wot?"

"I have a spare bedroom. If you're inclined — that is, erm... You would be welcome," she said, nervously avoiding his eyes. She could scarcely believe what she was offering. The gossip was bad enough when Crowley was just a visiting friend! "I can have the bed made for this evening."

Crowley made a quiet noise, dumbfounded. "Yeah, well, uh... Yeah. That'd be nice, actually," he said, nodding. "Thanks."

That was that. Crowley slunk back into camp that night, scraped together his things, and snuck out around the back of the tents. He nudged the dwarf sat at the camp entrance, mumbling some excuse about 'new accommodation', before vanishing into the night. It was nice, spending that evening sharing food with his favourite hobbit without worrying about when he had to leave. By the time he sloped off to bed, he buzzed with contentment. Yeah, this was better than the hard ground. Aziraphale thought similar things as she settled down, smiling softly at the rise-and-fall of Crowley's snores, barely audible from down the hall. She could get used to this. 

Lobelia walked down the road, her back ramrod straight and chin held high. She'd kept meticulous track of how she held herself ever since the gardener from down the road commented what _excellent_ posture that Miss Sackville-Baggins had — only to discover that he had meant Lobelia's sister-in-law, not her. It had been a sore topic with her ever since her marriage into the Sackville-Baggins family. Aziraphale had robbed Otho of over half their parents' inheritance! Honestly! She'd taken the bulk of the family wealth (though in truth, it had been just as much of a shock to Aziraphale, when the will had been read). Otho was sore over it, too. He always insisted that Aziraphale had been their parents' favourite. She was half the town's favourite, it seemed, too — especially the bachelors. She was everything a hobbit should be: plump, fussy, well-groomed, educated, and from a wealthy family no less. She was the most eligible bachelorette in town, at least on paper. Lobelia thought she was too aloof. She took great delight in spreading rumours about her sister-in-law, hoping to sabotage any thoughts of a marriage, in the hopes of reclaiming the family fortune she'd expected to marry into. She had her eye on Bilbo's smial, too, actually. 

In the meantime, she kept a close eye on her dear sister-in-law. She often visited on some false pretence, testing the limits of her patience. As she approached Aziraphale's home, she heard a rhythmic knocking sound. With a frown, she picked up the pace, stopping dead as she took in the scene in Aziraphale's front garden. 

A tall, broad figure stood on the lawn, dressed in a thin black shirt that must've done nothing to stave off the cold air, though the dwarf didn't seem bothered by it. His shoulders heaved as he panted, an axe hanging loose from one hand as he took a breather. A large pile of chopped firewood was building beside a tree-stump. Crowley huffed and groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. He was glad he'd tied up his hair before he came out; he didn't want it sticking to his skin like this. At least chopping wood was easier than mining stone. The logs split like warm butter beneath his axe, swung with all the muscle he’d built from a life of labouring to scrape by in the mountains. He heard someone clear their throat behind him. He turned around with a grunt. 

"What?" he said flatly. The hobbit by the garden gate was the better part of a foot shorter than Aziraphale, with tight black curls on her head and a nose half-wrinkled in contempt. 

"I presume you were hired to do this job," she said, making a lazy gesture at the wood. Crowley arched a brow, bringing the axe up to rest on his shoulder. 

"Why's it matter to you?" he said, coolly defensive. He'd already got the measure of the gossipy horrors of Hobbiton — and how Aziraphale detested them altogether. 

"This is my sister-in-law's house! I wouldn't want ruffians milling about, extorting the poor lady for money!" she said, crossing her arms with a haughty sniff. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Yeah, cause nobody 'round here would dream of that, would they?" he said sourly, recalling the many sleazeballs he'd watched Aziraphale brush off, avoid or outwit over the year he'd been visiting. "Name's Crowley. I'm doing a favour for a friend."

Lobelia's eyes widened. "You're the brute she's been fraternising with!" she cried in realisation. Crowley grimaced. "Oh, I've heard all about you and your designs on my sister-in-law!"

"My what?" he said, his voice cracking. Designs? What designs? People knew about his — well, really, that was too grand a word for it. They weren't designs. They were fantasies. Vain hopes. Things he'd entertained at length in his own head, but never dared utter out loud. In his panic, he didn’t notice the front door begin to creak open. 

"I'm telling you right now, you great galumphing oaf, you are barking up the wrong tree! Aziraphale is from very respectable stock, and believe you me, she would never look twice at someone like you!" she continued, storming through the gate to poke at his chest while she ranted. Crowley blinked in surprise. "So you can keep your lecherous desires to yourself!"

"Lobelia," Aziraphale said, stood at her front door. The hobbit and dwarf looked over in surprise, neither one having heard her come out. "Please, I can look after myself. Crowley is a dear friend, and you needn't worry."

She sneered and turned her nose up. Needn't worry indeed! What if Aziraphale went and eloped with this outsider, taking all her ill-gotten riches with her? Lobelia's hopes all hinged on her sister-in-law dying alone and childless (and the same went for that cousin of hers, too). With a huff, she turned around, and stormed back down the road, calling over her shoulder: "Well don't come crying to me when he proves me right!"

Aziraphale frowned, touching Crowley's arm gently. "My sister-in-law, Lobelia. I am terribly sorry about her," she said. She could see the way Crowley's brow furrowed, digging himself deeper into his own thoughts. 

"Is that really what people think I'm up to?" he said sullenly, kicking a pebble down the path. 

Aziraphale bit her lip. Well, she hadn't thought that, no; _hoped_ , perhaps, after a few glasses of good wine, but... She hesitated to really believe it. "Not everyone," she said, looking up at him with a pointed stare. He met her gaze and softened again, a smile finding his lips. 

"Alright. Not everyone, then."

Lobelia wasn't the only person who wasn't best pleased to hear Crowley had taken up lodgings with Aziraphale. Word spread fast, and by the time the winter market was drawing to a close, Aziraphale had more judgemental looks being thrown her way than ever — and fewer suitors on her doorstep than she could ever recall. She was on the slippery slope to becoming a pariah, and it was marvellous. Bilbo worried she was becoming blasé with her reputation. Perhaps he was right, but it was hard to worry about such things when Crowley was making snide remarks under his breath, making her laugh whenever he noticed her listening to the tutting village elders or whispering housewives. She was starting to wonder if respectability was really that big of a deal in the first place. Bedsides... she wasn't being _nearly_ as scandalous as she wanted to be, as far as her seasonal visitor was concerned. 

Her friendship with Crowley was rapidly becoming more complicated than she’d intended. The closeness of having him sleep in her home had really woken her up to just how fond she'd become of the dwarf. She felt a pang of longing in her chest whenever his letters arrived at the foot of her garden, wishing they contained something more than idle complaints about his workload, or funny stories about how he'd dodged the latest mine shift by removing his name from the ballot under cover of darkness. He was always up to mischief somehow. Just biding the days until he could back to the Shire, so it seemed. Oh, how she wished she could be braver...

She salved her self-pity that night with plenty of wine, and woke up the next morning slumped at her desk with her coat buttoned haphazardly over her chest, and a mess of spilled ink, wax and crumpled parchment on her desk. She frowned, and rubbed her head. What on earth had she been up to last night...? Squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window, she unfolded one of the pieces of paper, and skimmed over the surprisingly legible drunken rambling. She cringed as she saw who the letter was made out to. Oh dear. She'd been writing clumsy, misguided love confessions to Crowley, it seemed. Shaking her head, she swept the aborted love letters into the fireplace to be forgotten about, and went to find something to ease her hangover. At least she hadn't sent any of the blasted things!

...or at least, she assumed she hadn't. That is, until an unexpected letter from Crowley arrived in her post box a few days later. She didn't think anything of it as she fetched it from the garden, opening it over her hearty breakfast of marmelade toast, tea and a bowl of fresh fruit.

_Dear Aziraphale,_

_I've got to say, your letter came as a surprise — not a bad surprise! Just... really didn't expect that. I had no idea you felt that way. No idea what I did to deserve it, if I'm honest. You're way too good for the likes of me._

_But... I can't lie to you, amrâlimê. I feel the same. I'd love to be more clever about this, but you've cut the silver tongue right out of my head. If you want to make a go of it, I'm your dwarf — if you'll have me (which I'm guessing you will, judging by that letter you sent). Can't wait to see you again._

_Yours, Crowley_

Aziraphale’s eyes stretched wide. "Oh, fuck,” she groaned, dropping her head into her hands. 

Crowley trailed at the back of the market traders as Hobbiton, flushed with springtime, loomed ahead of them, hoping nobody would notice him plucking wildflowers from the path. He held them behind his back, whistling nonchalantly, whenever anyone happened to glance over their shoulder. By the time he slipped away to sidle up Aziraphale's garden path, he had a whole fistful of snowdrops, daffodils and bluebells. He chewed the inside of his mouth, hesitating for a moment as he went to knock on the door. Should he have brought wine? Food? He shook his head, and knocked firmly. Best not to overwhelm her. All he had so far was a slightly shakily written letter, full of sappy fantasies like wanting to curl up with him by a roaring fire, sharing cocoa and kisses. His cheeks had been burning like a blacksmith's forge when he opened that, right in the middle of the tavern. 

Aziraphale opened the door, and jumped. "Crowley! My, is that the time of year already?" she said, glancing at the clock which definitely had no information about the seasons on it. She chuckled nervously. "Um... how have you been, dear boy?"

"Good. Yeah. Got, uh — Got you these," he said, meekly offering the flowers. Aziraphale flushed at the sight, gently taking them from his hand, holding them close to her chest. She gave them a deep sniff. 

"Oh, they're lovely, Crowley. How sweet," she said, flustered, smiling, and still quite embarrassed with herself over the whole drunk letter incident. "Come inside, I... I believe we have some talking to do."

Crowley nodded, cleared his throat and ducked into the smial. It was as cosy and familiar as he remembered, yet he felt like a stranger here all over again. Something was about to change. He was — perhaps — about to get what he'd wanted for months now: Aziraphale, all to himself. If she wanted that. God, he hoped she did. He sat down on the sofa, nervously watching her set the flowers proudly in the vase on the mantle, and settle into her arm chair. She fiddled with her signet ring for a long, silent moment. 

"So, this letter..." she said, avoiding eye contact. "You didn't find it too — ah — too forward?"

He shook his head enthusiastically. "Nope. Not at all," he said. 

"You didn't find it inappropriate at all?" she said tentatively, seriously concerned she may have been a little too loose-lipped about what she’d been imagining. 

"Nah. It, uh... was quite sweet, s'pose," he said with a shrug, wondering if he was playing it cool or playing it awkward. There was another long silence. "Where d'you want to go from here, then?"

"W — Well, you understand, it would be best if — that is to say, I would hate for you to get tangled up in some public scandal," she said, staring at the ceiling and wringing her hands together. "So... whatever comes of this, really, perhaps, should be kept... rather on-the-sly, as it were."

Crowley deflated a little. Ah. Well, he couldn't have it all, he supposed. "Course. I get that," he said, nodding. To be fair, his lot wouldn't like him openly courting a hobbit, either. Dwarves were an insular, clannish people, and they didn't believe in sharing anything remotely intimate with the other races of Middle Earth. The odd dalliance was tolerated, so long as nothing came of it. A committed relationship...? That was much more frowned upon. 

"Then, I suppose... Lunch?" she suggested hopefully, her expression brightening as she finally dared to meet his eyes, long-repressed affection finally bubbling up to the surface. "I bought in a wonderful new cheese board for us to share this time. I think you'll like this one."

He grinned, relaxing, throwing his arms over the back of the sofa as he took up his usual comfortable position. "Alright. No more mouldy stuff, though!"

She tutted, gently touching his shoulder as she passed. "It's called _Delving Blue!"_ she replied, only half-indignantly.

The cheese was scrumptious, or at least Aziraphale said it was, and Crowley was so drunk on love and disbelief he thought anything tasted divine. They whiled away the afternoon until the sun dipped low and, on the far side of town, a few dwarves began to scratch their heads and wonder where old Silvertongue had slunk off to. Bofur chuckled and hid his smile in his cup. He glanced over to the dim, warm lights from the cosy homes in Hobbiton, knowing his friend was holed up in one of them. He’d caught a glimpse of Aziraphale’s letter in the tavern, after Crowley had collected it... It was just as quickly snatched away before he could read much more, but he saw all he needed to see. Three little words that made him grin, and made Crowley’s ears burn: _I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all those that celebrate Christmas, I hope you had a good one. To those who don’t, I still hope you all had a very enjoyable time since the last update. Times are as tough as they’ve ever been, and I’m still so glad to have so much kindness and warmth from the people who follow my writing. Thank you all so very much. You are, each and every one of you, very, very loved <3


	4. Love Of Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since some people have asked, yes, this story is set *before* The Hobbit :)

Two large hands rested on Aziraphale's shoulders. "Long day, amrâlimê?" Crowley asked, beginning to rub her tense muscles, digging in just enough to begin unknotting them. 

She sighed, tilting her head back to look up at him, his braids dangling as he leant over her. "Quite. I had three gentleman callers today — though I hesitate to call them gentlemen! — trying to whisk me away to their smials on some pretence," she huffed. "They just don't know how to take no for an answer."

"Wish I could've been there to see 'em off for you," he said, massaging her shoulders. He leant down to kiss her forehead, and she smiled at the familiar prickle of his beard. They'd been seeing one another since last spring, and had settled into comfortable domesticity whenever Crowley was in town. Their relationship was still a closely kept secret, though there was always an undercurrent of speculation about the dwarf that just couldn't seem to stay away from Miss Sackville-Baggins. Some assumed he was like the others, hoping to marry into wealth and comfort. Others pitied Crowley; he was clearly head-over-heels in unreciprocated love. 

"No need, dear," she said, patting his hand gently. "Besides, if you didn't go to work the market-stall in the day, you'd have no excuse to keep coming back here, would you?"

He smirked. "As if that would stop me," he said, sliding his hand up to brush her hair behind her ears. She smiled forlornly. She wished it was that easy; their love was in a precarious spot. If the dwarves ever stopped attending the markets, Crowley's visits would have to stop. He couldn't just drop all his work and vanish for a month every season to keep up this secret love affair. 

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," she said, and patted the spot beside her. He took his hands off her shoulders, coming around to sit beside her, throwing an arm over the back of the sofa. She settled against his chest with a sigh. "Now, tell me about your day."

"My day? Ah, nothing special. Standing by the stall, talking impressionable hobbits into buying crap they don't need. Ripping people off. The usual," he snickered, and she shook her head and gave him a few toothless admonishments. "Biding my time, waiting to come home."

She lifted her head. "Home?"

He tensed. "Uh. I meant — here," he said, making a vague gesture around the comfortable smial. "You know."

"Yes, I... I believe I do," she said shyly, snuggling closer with a warm glow in her chest. She reached up, and hesitantly began to toy with the ends of his dark red hair. His heart jumped again, picking up the pace. Should... Should he tell her how intimate it was, to touch a dwarf's hair? Uh. Maybe. Probably. Just so nobody got the wrong idea. 

"Amrâlimê, I — "

"Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight, perhaps?" she blurted out, cutting Crowley's words down before they made it past his lips. Ah. Maybe he didn't need to put the breaks on, then. "There's no obligation, of course, and — and I don't expect anything _inappropriate_ , nothing that would make you uncomfortable. I just... thought the company would be nice."

Crowley struggled to find the words for a moment. "Yeah. I'd be up for that," he said, resting his chin on top of her head and rubbing his hand over her back in a soothing motion. His heart fluttered as he felt her twirl one of his braids around her finger. He closed his eyes for a moment, just to savour the weight of her resting against him, warm and familiar and precious... He'd miss this when he left. He always did, but every time it got worse. He pressed another kiss to the crown of her head, wondering how empty his bed in the Blue Mountains would feel, after having shared his nights with Aziraphale here. It would be torture. He didn't know how much longer he could keep forcing himself to pack up his things and walk away, year in year out, suffering through months of separation from the woman he loved. 

... but he couldn't ask her for anything more than what they had. She didn't even want her neighbours and family to know he was courting her, so how could he justify moving in full-time? Or a proposal? Or anything more than this farce they were keeping up? He just had to be content with whatever she was willing to give. When the day came that she could no longer cope with it all — a day he knew would come, eventually — he just had to brace himself to bow out gracefully and limp off into the wilds, never to show his face the The Shire again. Until then, though, nothing on earth would keep him from loving her. 

Bilbo watched his cousin's expression curiously. "Something on your mind, Aziraphale?"

She jumped, finally shaking herself out of her stupor. "Hm? Yes, absolutely, tickety-boo," she said with a strained smile, finally ripping her eyes away from the window. "Just fine..."

He hummed, sipping his tea. He doubted that. He'd begun to notice a pattern these days, one that concerned him: every season the market drew to a close and the vendors moved on, Aziraphale would grow melancholy and withdrawn for a while. "It's not that dwarf, is it?"

"What? No, why would — that's preposterous," she said, looking down at her signet ring as she fiddled aimlessly with it. Bilbo arched a brow, and she sighed. It was hard to keep anything secret from him. "I... I shall simply miss the company, that's all."

"I wouldn't get too attached if I were you, Aziraphale," he said sagely, leaning back in his chair. She frowned. "It's no good, getting too involved with outsiders."

"What difference does it make?" she said, pouting. "He's every bit as respectable as the hobbits in town."

He gave a short, sceptical laugh. "We'll agree to disagree there — but whatever the case, outsiders don't hang around, do they?" he said, gesturing with his teacup at the rolling hills unfurling around Hobbiton. "He belongs out there in the mountains, swinging a pick-axe or whatever it is they do, and we belong here — at home, nice and cosy, with a warm cup of tea."

Her shoulders slumped. "I suppose you're right," she said quietly. Crowley probably led quite an exciting life, beyond the Shire. It would be selfish of her to ask for him to give it all up. She expected that he'd want to break things off, once his superiors decided to stop sending vendors to the market. She didn't doubt that he cared for her. She knew he did, it was just, well... like Bilbo said, maybe it was best not to expect too much. She just had to make the most of their time together, however long it was destined to last. 

Neither one of them dared ask how long they expected to stay together. Aziraphale didn't want to seem as if she was having second thoughts, and Crowley was terrified she'd think he was growing bored with her. Crowley was lucky he was a good salesman, or his bosses would have been far less tolerant of his frequent trips down from the mountains. Word had spread, of course, about Crowley's... close friendship. Some dwarves looked down their noses at him for it. Others gave him the benefit of the doubt. Some simply didn't blame him; it's not like he had much of a shot at any dwarf-women, after all. Female dwarves were exceedingly rare, to the point that the birth of a daughter was a cause for celebration and pride; in short, they could afford to be selective in romance. Crowley just didn't make the cut. Not that he'd ever given a shit, frankly, especially now he'd found love elsewhere. 

It made him do odd things, now and then. Last time, he spent a whole afternoon bartering with Bombur in exchange for dwarven cooking spices for Aziraphale to try. This time, he had an extra weight in his pocket as he trekked toward Hobbiton. He'd worked hard on this present. He slipped away from his travelling companions like usual, strolling up to Aziraphale's garden gate, pausing at the foot of the garden path with a frown. There was someone on the doorstep already. He cleared his throat, drawing the man's attention.

"Uh... can I help you?" Crowley asked, pushing his way into the garden, scanning the windows in search of any sign of his girlfriend.

The hobbit wrinkled his nose up. "Oh. I've heard about you," he said, rolling his eyes and turning back toward the door, knocking loudly. "I wouldn't hang around if I were you. Miss Sackville-Baggins has plans for today."

"Right," he said, narrowing his eyes and advancing up the path anyway. He hadn't seen this one before. If Aziraphale had plans, fine, but he wasn't leaving until he knew for sure this wasn't some other sleazebag looking to get under her skirt. There was shuffle behind the door before it finally creaked open, revealing a slightly hassled-looking hobbit. 

"Mr Arch, hello, I — oh! Crowley!" she said, stunned. "I didn't realise you were arriving today. I'm so sorry."

"S'alright," he said, glancing down the road. "Want me to go...?"

"No, no, please come in, both of you. There's plenty of food to go around," she said, pausing to touch Mr Arch's arm just before she went inside. "My deepest condolences, Mr Arch."

He smiled, making Crowley frown. He didn't look like a man in mourning. "Please, it's Gabriel," he said, following her closely inside. 

Crowley stuck close to Aziraphale as she took a tea tray from the kitchen, glancing through the the parlour where the other hobbit had sat down. He leant down to Aziraphale's ear. "Who's he?" he hissed under his breath.

Aziraphale winced. "A family friend. Recently widowed," she whispered with a pitying glance into the parlour. "I didn't especially want him here today — but — well, he's grieving, and when he asked, I couldn't tell him no."

Crowley hummed. "Fair enough I suppose," he sighed, trailing her into the living room. He sat on the sofa, watching Gabriel from the corner of his eye. He didn't look upset. Shouldn't he at least have the good grace to look a bit sad..? If Crowley lost Aziraphale, he'd be inconsolable, and they weren't even married. He settled back and tried to ignore it. People had different ways of coping, he guessed, and maybe the shock hadn't worn off yet. The small-talk between the two hobbits flowed like stagnant water, to his ears, as he tried to ignore the dirty looks being thrown by Gabriel for gatecrashing the afternoon tea. He didn't care. If Aziraphale said he could stay, he didn't need some stranger's approval too. 

"So, Aziraphale," said Gabriel with a sly smile. "I hear you're still not betrothed."

She hesitated, blinking in surprise. "No, I'm not," she said, with a side-glance at Crowley. "I'm quite content as I am."

"Really? I would've thought it would get lonely," he said, idly smoothing down his lapels. Crowley's expression curdled. "I know how that feels, now, alone after so long. I've been thinking, I'm in need of a new wife, really."

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. "Gabriel, it's hardly been a month!" she cried. "Give yourself time to adjust, good heavens."

"Now! My wife was a practical woman; it's what she would've wanted," he insisted. Crowley guessed, by the sceptical look he and Aziraphale shared, they both had their doubts about that. "And... the way I see it, we both have something the other needs. I didn't come around here today for no reason, after all — though I hadn't counted on an audience."

Gabriel shot a glare at the dwarf on the sofa. Crowley smiled sarcastically and waved. "And what exactly is it you think I need?" Aziraphale said with a deep crease in her brow.

"A good marriage," he said, setting down his teacup and saucer. Crowley rolled his eyes; figures. Another greedy hobbit with a sense of entitlement! 

Aziraphale stood up abruptly, towering over her suddenly-unwelcome visitor. "Now, you listen here, Mister Arch! I invited you in today out of the kindness of my heart, to support you in your hour of need, and in return you — you — _proposition_ me! In front of another guest, no less!" she said, with an indignant gesture at Crowley, who had leaned back to watch the fireworks. He loved seeing her tear strips out of these idiots. Gabriel spluttered and stood up to face her, though she still stood half a foot taller than him. "Your poor wife must be rolling in her grave. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

Gabriel scowled. "I think now I see why they call you _Aziraphale Fork-tongue!"_ he snapped. Aziraphale blinked in surprise, taken aback for a long beat of silence. People... People called her what...?

Sensing her shock, Crowley cleared his throat, and pushed himself off the sofa. He stood behind Aziraphale, his powerful frame giving more weight to her anger. "Listen, mate," he said. "You heard the woman. Out."

"What — ?"

Crowley took one step toward him, and Gabriel lurched, scurrying out of arm's reach. That snapped Aziraphale back to herself. "Ahem. Yes, quite right, thank you, Crowley," she said, straightening up again. "If you could show this gentleman out, that would be much appreciated."

His lip twitched up. "My pleasure," he said, having to bite his tongue before he added on _amrâlimê_ at the end. He advanced toward Gabriel again, and that was all it took to shepherd the red-faced, indignant hobbit out of the parlour and down to the front door. Gabriel wrenched it open, stopping only to throw another glare over his shoulder.

"Don't look so smug. You won't get any further, either," he said.

Crowley arched a brow. "Really? Cause I'm the one sleeping here tonight," he said, unable to help himself. Gabriel scoffed, mumbling something about the arrogance of dwarves, and slammed the door as he left. 

Aziraphale was relieved to hear the heavy footfalls of her boyfriend returning to the living room, now they were alone. She looked up with a fatigued, apologetic smile. "I am sorry, dear. I didn't expect that to go quite so pear-shaped."

"I thought you liked pears," he quipped, collapsing onto the sofa, draping one arm over her shoulder to draw her in against his side. She tutted and shook her head fondly. He looked down at her, sensing she was still troubled by something. "What a couple we make, eh? Silvertongue and Fork-tongue."

She crossed her arms tightly. "I'm glad you find it amusing."

He frowned. "What?" he said. "Come on, amrâlimê, I was just kidding. It’s not like you to care about what they're saying out there."

"There's a difference between — between rumours and — and this!" she said, distressed. "It's all very well and good, muttering things when they don't have proof, but... it's something quite different to condemn someone outright."

He hummed. "I guess. Nothing wrong with being a bit fierce if you ask me, though," he said, giving her a light squeeze. "They're bound to say it's a bad thing, cause they're not the ones who love you. You already knew that. They only want your cash, and they've got to make up _some_ reason not to like you, when they realise you can see right through 'em."

She mulled it over for a moment. "I... I suppose, when you put it that way, it does rather make sense," she admitted. She finally allowed herself a weak chuckle. "Dreadful, aren't they?"

"The worst," he said, pressing a kiss against her temple. He reached into his pocket, feeling the gift he'd brought along this time. "Now, close your eyes, I've got something for you."

"Pardon?" she said, mock-suspiciously.

"Just do it," he said. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and waited. She heard a rustle, and felt Crowley reach around her. Something cold and heavy rested against her chest, and Crowley leaned close to her ear to say: "Open your eyes, amrâlimê."

She looked down, her hand automatically reaching to cup the pendant he'd fastened around her neck. "Oh," she breathed, admiring the delicately crafted miniature sword. It was silver, embellished with dwarven runes in tiny script and, if she looked closely, she could see a small gold flame curling up from the pommel. "It's lovely."

"We call it a zirak-baraz," he said, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Roughly, it means flaming sword. It’s like a charm. S'posed to keep you safe."

"I shall keep it close to my heart," she said, tucking it under her shirt and patting the spot where it settled against her skin. Crowley did his best not to let his eyes linger. She pulled him in for a soft kiss, and hummed in contentment. "Oh, I've missed you."

"Likewise," he said, stealing another from her lips. 

Something felt different about that visit. Aziraphale might've known, with hindsight, that they were building up to something without really saying it. Every morning they would linger in the kitchen, soaking in the dawn in one another's arms, loathe to part from that sleepy domesticity so Crowley could go out to work. Bilbo noticed the way his cousin stared off into the middle-distance, nibbling her lip, feeling the outline of some sort of necklace beneath her shirt. Crowley got a few kicks in the shins from the other dwarves at the market-stall, when he failed to notice a customer walking right up to him. His mind was elsewhere. It was still in Aziraphale's bedroom, watching her stretch as she woke up, back arched and nightgown riding up... He shook himself, trying to focus on the job. He cursed himself for thinking that way about her. He didn't even know if she was interested in... that. Plenty of people weren't. Most dwarves weren't even that bothered, really. He ought to be keeping his filthy thoughts to himself. It was his own problem, not hers.

...Only it was most decidedly also Aziraphale's problem. When Crowley had first moved in to her room, the nights had been cooler, and he'd worn a nightshirt to bed. Now, in the heat of summer, he'd forgone the shirt altogether, much to Aziraphale's flustered surprise. Resting her head against his chest felt altogether more intimate now, closer... She wanted to feel more of that. She wanted —

She startled from her thoughts as she heard the front door open. "I'm home," Crowley called, dumping his weapons and satchel by the door. Aziraphale insisted the dagger and axe not go any further than the entrance hall. Something about etiquette. "Amrâlimê?"

"In here," she called out from the bathroom, pulling the door shut properly. "Just about to hop in the bath."

"Alright. Mind if I help myself to some food? M'starving," he called.

"Be my guest," she said, then hesitated, nibbling her lip. She eyed the steaming water in the copper bathtub. "In fact, could you perhaps bring some in for me as well?"

There was a long silence. "...thought you said you were in the bath."

She gulped, her nerve deserting her. "Ah — well, not yet!" she said, snatching her dressing gown from the hook and pulling it on. "I'm covered, dear, don't worry."

"Ah, right, that's — yeah, good," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. If she didn't know any better, she'd say his footfalls were faster than usual as he bustled about the pantry. She sighed, leaning against the edge of the tub... There she went again, chickening out at the last second. She shuddered, thinking of the embarrassment of being rejected outright. Really, Crowley had every reason to say no. Their relationship wasn’t public. They _certainly_ weren’t married. But... they were an unorthodox couple anyway, weren’t they? And did it matter, really, when Aziraphale had no plans to marry any other man? Well, she didn’t exactly plan on proposing to Crowley either, but that wasn’t for lack of wanting. It just seemed so out of reach, something so public, and so permanent. This would be different. What happened behind closed doors was their own business. Nobody could take it away from them. 

There was a gentle knock on the door. “Can I come in?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale said yes, and he pushed his way into the bathroom with his eyes fixed wilfully on the tray he was carrying, being unnecessarily careful not to let the glass of orange juice slide off. He set it on the lid of the toilet and stood back, looking up, around, _anywhere_ but Aziraphale, and the way her robe exposed so much skin that her high-necked blouses and long skirts didn’t. “Uh, didn’t know what you wanted, so I just brought... everything.”

She smiled softly, looking at the laden tray. When she’d explained that hobbits had to eat plenty to keep up a healthy weight, he’d taken it to heart, and always made special efforts to make sure she ate well. This time, he’d gathered samples of her favourite cheeses, some crackers, grapes, cured ham, a wedge of bread and a generous square of butter, and — for a sweet finish — a stack of oat biscuits. “Thank you, dear. I think you might’ve even overfaced me,” she said, feeling a twinge as she saw his expression fall, if only minutely. “Why don’t you stay and share it with me? You did say you were hungry.”

“Psh, nah, I’m — I’m — ” he stammered, unable to choke out the truth. “You bath water’s gonna go cold. You just relax and enjoy your food, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Oh. I was thinking I might just... hop in while we chat,” she said, almost inaudibly, staring down at her watery reflection so she didn’t have to see the thoughts behind his eyes. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing disgust there. “But I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I wouldn’t be,” Crowley rasped, his mouth running away with him before he had time to reign it in. His eyes were drifting over to her now, almost helplessly, now he dared to hope that... that maybe... she was trying to tell him something. “More worried about you, if I’m honest.”

“Me?” she said, looking up with a frown. 

“Uh, yeah. I mean. Doesn’t seem fair, me hanging around while you’re naked — ‘n’ I’m fully dressed, nothing to — well. Hm. Nevermind,” he said, waving a hand as if to swat the words from the air. “Not that I’d — I wouldn’t _look_ , it’s just — ”

“We could make it fair,” she said, almost inaudibly, catching the first hint of interest. He didn’t want to leave because he was uncomfortable. He wasn’t looking away because he didn’t like what he saw. He was looking away because he _did._

Crowley blinked. “Sorry, come again?”

“Plenty of couples bathe together,” she said, running her fingers through the water. Her heart bucked in her chest. “There’s room for two.”

Crowley shook his head, swallowing hard. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, amrâlimê.”

“Why not?” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. 

He whined slightly, and floundered for words. “I... I just... I _know_ I’ll make it weird,” he finally snapped, frustrated with himself. “I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want, you know that, but — but — look, bodies react, alright? There. I said it. I’ll show myself out, it’s fine.”

She smiled coyly, even as he pivoted on the spot to flee from the bathroom. Bingo. “There are contraceptives in the kitchen.”

Crowley stopped dead. He blinked. He ran those words over in his head at least three times before he slowly looked over his shoulder, a deep crease in his brow. “There’s what in the what now?”

“Contraceptives. Kitchen. First cupboard on the right,” she said, fiddling with the hem of her dressing gown. “If you’re that way inclined.”

He made a noise that sound a little bit like a dying animal, abruptly cut short by his need to salvage the mood. “R — Right. I’ll, um... yeah, sorry, how long have you had those?” he said, pointing vaguely in that direction, still sprinting to catch up with wherever this evening had taken him. 

She blushed, ducking her head slightly. “Since we started sharing a bed. I thought it paid to be prepared,” she said. She flushed with embarrassment, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “You needn’t feel obliged. It’s only an offer, not a — ”

“No, nope, I’m all yours. I’m going, I’ll get them,” he said, blood running hot as he scrambled out the door and turned toward the kitchen. “Be right with you, amrâlimê!”

She laughed, rolling her eyes at him as she untied her dressing gown and let it drop to the floor. “Someone’s eager,” she mumbled, tittering to herself, and listening to him ransacking the kitchen cupboard, followed by the telltale _thump_ of him hitting his head, and the string of khuzdul curses that followed. She shook her head fondly as she helped herself to some food from the platter. Of all the men who had ever landed on her doorstep, she was glad to have picked Crowley in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “zirak-baraz” means “red spike” but it was the best I could do because as per usual with these things, khuzdul only exists in fragments online


	5. Braided

Not many hobbits took notice, when Aziraphale started to wear her hair in braids. She noticed a few lingering, stunned glances from the dwarves in town, if she happened to pass by the market, and she wasn't surprised. Dwarven courtship braids on a hobbit were a rare sight. Crowley was quite open with her about what they were, when he'd combed his fingers through her hair and began to weave it with surprising dexterity, as they lounged breathlessly in the bath after their first time having sex. 

"Needed to see you wearing them at least once," he said, his voice husky against the back of her neck. The bathwater had cooled to room temperature, but their bodies were still running too hot to notice. "Lovers' braids. Meant to show that... that you're with somebody... You can take 'em out, if you want, though. I’d understand."

She ran her fingertip over the braid with a small, contented sigh. "They're lovely," she said. She thought on it for a moment. "And... I suppose, thinking about it, no one would know what they meant..."

"Not a soul," he murmured, his beard prickling against her skin as he kissed her neck. "Well. Apart from the dwarves, but I don't give a shit what they think."

She flicked him lazily on the arm. "Language," she said, so he cursed in khuzdul instead, and they both descended into fatigued giggling. 

In time, she could neither remember nor imagine life without Crowley coming and going, as certain as the seasons. They exchanged letters when he was away, and hardly spent a moment apart when he was there. Everything was going well. They had dinner, went for woodland walks together, and Crowley told tales of old dwarven heroes by the fire in the evenings. They retired to their bedroom every night after a quiet, intimate evening, and more often than not, got up the next morning a little sore, but smiling. Bilbo, for all he remained suspicious of Crowley (though Aziraphale had still somehow managed to contrive her schedule so the two had never officially met), seemed to relent after a while. He seemed to convince himself that the dwarf was nothing more than a friend, and no threat to his cousin. Of course, though, Bilbo wasn't Aziraphale's only relative with an opinion...

"Why exactly does he stay in your home, Aziraphale?" said Lobelia, her hands on her hips as she watched Aziraphale carefully pruning her rose bush. 

"Because he needs a roof over his head, Lobelia," she replied evenly, snipping at the plant. "I took pity on the poor man."

She scoffed and crossed her arms. "You're too soft! Mark my words, he'll take advantage. He's the sort, I can tell," she said haughtily. "At least tell me he pays for the room!"

"I'm very well reimbursed for my troubles, don't you worry," she said, leaning down to smooth the creases from her skirt that hid the light fingertip bruises Crowley had left on her thighs. "Everyone seems so terribly worried about a simple arrangement between friends, really, it's quite beyond me."

"Yes, I think it is! You're out of your depth, and if I were you, I'd tell him to find bed and board elsewhere next season!" she said firmly.

"I'll keep it in mind, shall I?" she said dryly, picking up the basket of green waste and depositing it on the small compost heap in the corner. 

Crowley had similar troubles, back in the mountains. When he lounged in the tavern after a long day actually _working_ in the blacksmith's, he wasn't best pleased to be accosted by Bofur again. He grumbled and tried to ignore him, to no avail. The usually-chirpy dwarf slid another drink across the table to him, and Crowley begrudgingly accepted. "What d'you want?" he muttered.

"Just a chat," he replied, unusually subdued. He glanced around the warmly lit room which bustled with activity, and flavoursome smoke billowing in from the kitchen behind the bar. His voice blended in with the noise. "I hear someone spotted your — um, friend — from Hobbiton, with courtship braids."

He grunted. "What about it?"

"... are they yours?" he said, nervously fiddling with the handle on his flagon. 

"Of course they're mine, who the hell else's would they be? His Majesty Thorin Oakenshield's?" he said sarcastically. Bofur winced. "Don't look at me like that. I seem to remember it was you egging me on, when I first met her."

"Aye, it was... and I'm sure you're very happy together," he said, attempting a smile. "It's just — well — you know you can't have the best of both worlds, don't you?"

"Hm?" he said, arching a brow as he took a long draught from his ale.

Bofur glanced around nervously and dropped his voice to a low murmur. "You'll have to choose eventually, Crowley — us, or her," he said, his eyes full of worry and pity. Crowley stared impassively into his cup. It was true; he couldn't have a foot in both worlds forever. If he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life, he'd be forced into exile from the mountains. "You're one of my oldest friends, and — and I'd be sad to see you go, but... I wanted to tell you..."

"Spit it out, Bofur," he sighed, unable to stay properly sullen while his friend was wearing that stupid kicked puppy look. 

"I'd be happy for you. If you left, to be with her," he said. "I think she's a wonderful woman, and she'd make the happiest bride this side of the Misty Mountains."

He looked up suddenly. "You think?"

"If you asked, aye!" he said, nodding enthusiastically. "She's head-over-heels for you, my friend! Or she wouldn't wear those braids as proudly as she does. You're a lucky man."

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I dunno, Bofur. She's... she's got prospects, y'know? A future. S'more than I've got," he said. "She can do better than some sad, ugly dwarf."

He scowled. It was an almost comical look, on his friendly face. "Now, you stop that! That's not true," he said, and Crowley scoffed. Bofur swatted his arm across the table. "You're a good man, with a kind heart."

"Piss off."

"And you've got a wicked sense of humour," he continued, pointing a finger at him, as if he'd made some incontrovertible point. Crowley rolled his eyes and gulped down some more ale. "I'm just saying, there's more to you than you think, and your lady friend down there must see it, even if you don't. Think on it, eh?"

"Sure," he said, and finished the last of his drink. He had no intentions of thinking about it. He'd only upset himself, knowing how Aziraphale was bound to slip through his fingers sooner or later — and he would let it happen. If that's what she wanted, he'd let her go. He loved her; of course he would. "Another round?"

Bofur grinned. "Aye."

That winter, Crowley found himself busy around Aziraphale's home. He was, for all he preferred not to work, quite good at a lot of crafts. He fitted a new lock on her front door, oiled the hinges, and repaired the wobble on the side table by her armchair. That last one, she didn't ask for, but he thought... well, while he was at it, may as well. That quickly evolved into a whole afternoon dusting, sweeping, polishing and obsessively fixing anything he found which had a fault. Aziraphale was _very_ grateful when she came home. It, admittedly, helped matters when she discovered Crowley wriggling out of his shirt in the bedroom, planning to wash out the oil stains from the day's work.

As he lay with her that evening, fingers laced behind his head, staring at the bedroom ceiling... He thought back to what Bofur had said. He glanced over at her. She leant against the headboard, chewing absent-mindedly on a piece of dried apricot as she flipped a page from her new book. He smiled. Candlelight suited her. He reached over, wrapping an arm around her waist and snuggling into her side with a contented hum. Maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. If Aziraphale was happy with him, if she _trusted_ him... why shouldn't he ask her if he could stay? Not right at that second, of course, but soon. His eyelids began to drop as he felt her stroke his hair. He could do it in springtime, when the snowdrops began to bloom, and there were lambs bouncing in the pastures outside Hobbiton. Yeah. That'd be nice... 

Far, far away from that sleepy Shire town, in a dark offshoot from the main halls, two dwarven foremen skulked behind their desks. Papers shuffled in the gloom, lit only by a single oil-lamp, and its myriad reflections in the milky white crystals scattered around in the rough stone walls. Down here, it was cold, and uncomfortable. The inhabitants of this office turned bitter with the coming of the cold mountain winter, and the time had come to allocate the mine shifts. Those shifts were unpleasant jobs, even for the most seasoned dwarf; they took their workers deep, deep within the mountains, too far to travel back in less than a day, to the murky reaches below ground in search of fresh veins of gold, mithril and jewels. It was an open secret among the workers what they were _really_ looking for: another Arkenstone. The dwarf-lords of the Blue Mountains lusted after such a jewel, something to compare to the old tales of the Heart of the Lonely Mountain. 

The shifts were well-compensated, but even so, volunteers were limited. There always had to be a lottery to decide how to bolster the workforce. Shifts lasted two months each. Dwarves never got drafted in for more than one shift in a row — and it didn't go unnoticed, when someone was dodging their mining duty. Hastur grumbled, shuffling papers. 

"Crowley Silvertongue... he's not done a shift in years," he grumbled.

Ligur curled his lip. "Always got an excuse," he said. "Thinks he's so clever."

"He's eager enough to go running down to the Shire," he huffed. "He's down there now. Skulking around. Slacking off, probably."

Ligur nodded, a sour look on his face. "Someone ought to make sure he doesn't get off easy this time," he said. He looked at his desk, tapping thoughtfully... A nasty grin started to tug at his lips. "The next mine shift starts the same day the market-vendors return, y'know."

After a short pause, Hastur began to chuckle. The noise echoed around the chamber. "He won't be getting out of it this time," he said, adding Crowley's name to the list of miners with a few short scratches of his pen. 

Crowley stuffed his clothes haphazardly into his bag, the heavy weight of reluctance draped over his shoulders. This was always the hardest part; gathering up his meagre belongings, packing them away, ready to sling over his shoulder and head back to a place that had stopped feeling like home some time ago. He almost asked if he could leave some stuff here, to save him lugging everything back and forth all the time, but... nah. Couldn't count on it. Not before they'd talked about the idea that he might stay, for real. 

Aziraphale poked her head into the bedroom. "Your compatriots are almost at the door, dear," she said, pulling her cardigan tighter around her, looking downcast. "You'd best be getting a wiggle on."

He gave an exasperated huff. "You hobbits use some weird words," he said, pulling his bag onto his shoulder with one last glance around to check for any stray socks. 

"Something you'll have to get used to," she quipped, though there was no energy behind it. 

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. M'not gonna be gone long, amrâlimê," he said. She sighed, and nodded. "You'll be seeing this ugly mug on your doorstep again before you know it."

She scoffed. "Now, stop it. It's a devilishly handsome mug," she said, gently placing her hand over his. There was a shout from outside, making them both look toward the door and tense up. "Ah. That'll be your chums."

Crowley grunted, readjusting his grip on his bag as he mumbled his assent and made for the door. She followed, trailing behind him, chiding herself for being so sullen. She had a bad feeling about it this time, though she couldn't pinpoint why. She'd felt sick all morning because of it. She shook her head as she followed him absent-mindedly down the garden path, finally pausing by the gate to meet the dwarves clustered to wait for Crowley. The rest had gone on ahead.

"Alright, lads," Crowley said unenthusiastically, throwing up his hand in greeting. Bombur waved back, and the twins — Eric and Erik, unfortunately named — smiled. He glanced between them and Aziraphale for a moment. "Give us a second to say bye, will you?"

"Oh, don't let me keep you," she said with a strained smile. It was a feat to keep herself from crying. What on earth had gotten into her this time...? She was never usually this sensitive about it. Having to act as if they were nothing more than landlady-and-tenant wasn't helping, either. "You're welcome back anytime."

"Yeah, uh... thanks for having me," he said, shooting her a sly wink while his back was facing his friends. "Same time next season?"

"I'll have the room ready for you," she said with a warm smile. She glanced nervously up and down the road, looking for nosey neighbours... The coast was clear. She took a step forward, standing on her tip-toes to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. Crowley took a sharp breath, eyes widening as she took a step back. "I'll see you in the spring, then."

He stuttered and choked on his words. "Y — Yeah," he said, stumbling over his feet as he pushed through the garden gate, to the three dwarves who were grinning and elbowing him in the ribs as he started along the path. Aziraphale was bemused as she waved them off. Even hobbits didn't think a kiss on the cheek was worth so much eyebrow-waggling and lewd gestures as she saw them making, much to Crowley's chagrin as he stomped off, trying valiantly to ignore the teasing. She'd thought it was a perfectly innocent little kiss... which it would've been, if it hadn't landed right on Crowley's beard — the most intimate place above the belt, as far as dwarves were concerned. 

The market-vendors dragged their feet back through the fortified gate which marked the entrance to their hometown. The settlement clustered in the valleys and slopes of the Blue Mountains was sparse and grey, from the cleanly hewn rock walls to the smoke curling up from the blacksmiths’ forges. Sparks of colour came from the gold smelting and the odd twinkle of a jewel being passed from hand to hand, but not much besides, especially when their cloaks had become streaked with soot and ash from the unforgiving work. Still, it was a prosperous town. Many of its inhabitants had experienced far tougher things than a hard day’s work. They were Durin’s Folk, mainly; refugees who had travelled to build a new home after Smaug had taken their heartland. Thorin’s Great Hall sat at the head of the valley, with a vast stone staircase leading up to the doors, behind which lay the vaults and training-halls which bolstered his power when his charisma fell short. 

Crowley didn’t technically belong here, if he was being honest with himself. He belonged to the Firebeard clan, who lived alongside the Broadbeams in the neighbouring cities beyond the craggy peaks. He’d never fitted in there, though, with all the grand history, high society and vast statues of the elders everywhere you turned. Thorin’s Halls suited him better. They were down-to-earth types, sobered by the loss of their homeland, often treated as outcasts by their own kinsmen. Crowley knew the feeling. That, and Durin’s Folk were well accustomed to trading with other races; Crowley liked that. Human traders and messengers had good tales to tell, if you caught them in the right mood. You could even tempt them into lending some money, or get yourself some freelance work, if you could prove you were good for it. Most of their timesheets were written in the common tongue, rather than khuzdul, just for that reason. 

Crowley was already drifting over toward the inn, eager for a warm meal, when a hand clamped over his shoulder. He turned. “Uh — hi, boss,” he said hesitantly, taken aback to see Ligur so soon. “... what’s up?”

With a slimy grin, he held up an empty timesheet. “Your mine shift starts in an hour.”

“You what?” he said, eyes widening in horror. This couldn’t be happening. He’d been dodging the shifts for so long he was sure they’d forgotten him by now. “How come? I’ve not even had a chance to sit down yet!”

“You’ve not done a shift in years. Your turn’s long overdue,” he said, thrusting the paper into his hand. Crowley stared, jaw slack, thoughts racing. He’d barely have time to get ready in an hour! “I suggest you pack your provisions quickly before you report to the foreman — and don’t even think about trying to wriggle your way out of this one, or you can expect a double shift.”

Crowley groaned, dragging a hand over his face as he eyed the sheet in dread. “How long am I down there for?”

“Two months. Standard shift,” he grunted as he turned to leave, not noticing the red-haired dwarf’s shoulders slump even more; he’d miss all his post, and he’d never find a courier to take a letter to Aziraphale in time! “Don’t be late.”

Aziraphale felt awful. At first, she’d wondered if it was food poisoning, but no amount of searching the pantry turned up anything that had gone off. Everything was fresh. Quite right, too! She hadn’t long since restocked it. At least it had kept her hands busy and her mind occupied for the morning, until the nausea wore off. You know, until it repeated itself the next morning. And the next. And the next. 

“I can’t be pining this hard after that blasted dwarf, can I?” she mumbled to herself, pulling a folk medicine book down from her shelf. It had never failed her before. It was true, she missed Crowley, but this was ridiculous! She wasn’t totally dependent on him! 

She settled with the book on her lap, leafing through the section on nausea and vomiting. Suspect number one was bad fish, but it certainly wasn’t that. She flicked to the next page. Hmm... no, it wasn’t seasickness. She’d have noticed if she’d woken up on a boat this morning. Could it be a tummy bug? Well, perhaps, but she had no other symptoms. She didn’t have a temperature, and... and she only felt sick in the mornings... Her heart dropped. No. It _couldn’t_ be, they’d taken precautions, it — it was borderline impossible. She swallowed hard. Oh no. Now she thought back, when she was putting together the contraceptive mix — a tried and tested medicinal blend, passed down three generations of her family — she _had_ been a little blasé about the measurements. She’d made so many batches these last few months, she got complacent. Oh dear lord, did she forget an ingredient? Had she got it all wrong? Picked up the wrong jar? She barely even remembered. Putting together the mixture seemed almost inconsequential at the time. 

Heart racing, she flipped to the page on diagnosing a pregnancy. She grimaced, reading through the instructions... Well, needs must, she supposed. She held the book open, rushing to her medicine cabinet, pulling out the necessary ingredients. Luckily, she had everything in. Her hands trembled as she ground up the herbs, checking the book every few seconds, measuring everything meticulously this time. She couldn’t afford to get this wrong. She had to know. 

Half an hour later, she sat on the bathroom floor, staring blankly at the cotton bud in her hand. She looked at the book, the fateful page still open... _If the solution has been properly mixed (it should be thoroughly filtered, and transparent like water), it will not react if the test is negative. If the test is positive, after approximately five minutes, the solution will dye the cotton-bud cobalt blue._

Aziraphale sniffled. She waited. It was a tortuous few minutes, as her future hung in the balance... She swallowed back the urge to cry as the white cotton began to darken to a rich, unmistakable blue. She wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath. “Well. That’s that, then,” she said in a shaking voice. Her hand subconsciously brushed over her abdomen as she got to her feet. She barely felt different — how could things have changed so drastically without her even noticing? She disposed of the test and washed her hands, bombarded by thoughts in the stifling silence of her home. How was she supposed to make sense of something so huge? So life-changing? 

She drifted into her study, sitting at the desk for a long while, staring at a wall. She felt alone; achingly, stabbingly, painfully alone. But... was she? Crowley would come back for her, wouldn’t he? It was hardly something they’d planned, but he was a good man, with a loyal heart. If she called for him, he’d be there. He’d be a father, if that’s what she asked of him, she was certain of it. Neither of them had counted on this, and that made it all the more important that they bolster one another through the aftershocks. She took a deep, anchoring breath, and tried to feel for some sense of... of the life, nestled inside her. It was someone entirely new. A smile tugged at the edge of her mouth. She liked that idea, now she thought about it. Someone in-between her and Crowley, born from love, without the shallow marriage-politics she’d always feared becoming ensnared by. True, she’d be a disgrace in Hobbiton for this, but a giddy, reckless part of her found that thrilling. She could build a life around this — her baby, her lover... She _wanted_ that. There was no going back. There was no hiding from it anymore. With a deep breath, she picked up a quill, smoothed out a sheet of parchment, and began to write. 

_Dearest Crowley,_

_I hope you’re well, and thinking of me in those cold mountains you love to complain so much about. You’ll have to forgive me for teasing. I have news for you, the sort that could well change everything. I dearly hope it will. Before I tell you what it is, I ought to tell you what I should have said before you left. I love you, and I’ve been a terrible coward, to keep you a secret from my friends and family. I have thought so for some time. I don’t want you to believe that it’s just this special news which has brought a sudden change of heart on the matter. Rather, it’s made me feel braver than I was. It’s given me the strength to say, wholly and without reserve, that I want you to stay. I would be with you forever, if you’ll have me._

_Now, this news... It seems that, despite our best efforts, nature has taken its course — so to speak. That is to say, I’m with child. It is yours, of course. I realise that you might have your suspicions, given how many months of the year you spend away, and how careful we’ve been, but I assure you I’ve been nothing but faithful. My heart belongs to you, and you alone. In any case, I suspect that once the baby is born, it will be quite obvious they are half-dwarf. I do hope they have your hair. I have always loved the colour._

_I realise it’s a terrible shock. It certainly was to me! I wouldn’t blame you if you struggle for words, but please... I beg of you, write back as soon as you get this. I need to know you’ll stand by me. I have every faith that you will, but I need to hear it from you. I don’t want to do this alone, my dear._

_Your amrâlimê,_

_Aziraphale_


	6. Hell Hath No Fury

She waited four days before the worry set in. Two days for the letter to travel there and, provided Crowley checked the post, two days for a reply to travel back. Perhaps she was being unfair, though. Maybe he didn't check for post every day. He might be busy; he couldn't dodge work all the time, after all. He had to make a living. On the sixth day, she happened to notice the human ranger she'd paid to deliver her letter, and managed to flag him down. He assured her that the letter had arrived safe and sound, just like she'd instructed, and even showed her the proof-of-receipt card from the post office he'd delivered it to. Hassled and stressed, she paid him an extra silver coin for his troubles, and wandered the country roads with a pensive frown. It had certainly been delivered safely, then. What could be keeping him? She'd made it abundantly clear she expected to hear back. Ordinarily, she'd always get a response within about five days, and that was only when she'd written about silly things like the state of her petunias, or the price of bread. Perhaps... Perhaps he was just giving some thought to his response. This was life-changing. He must be stunned beyond words.

She slipped into fantaisies, after that. She dreamed of finding an envelope in her letterbox, one which sat heavy in her hand... and when she opened it, an engagement ring would slip out into her hand. Or rather, engagement bead — Crowley had once sheepishly muttered some explanations about marriage traditions among dwarves, and much of it seemed to revolve around braiding hair. Those thoughts settled her to sleep that night, gently rubbing her abdomen. Soon, he'd write back. Soon...

Every swing of Crowley's pickaxe sent jolts through his arm. He grunted, levering out a particularly difficult chunk of stone from the wall and wiping the sweat from his brow, leaving behind a smear of rock-dust. It was unforgiving work. His muscles burned with exertion, and his back ached. For all he'd searched the streets, he couldn't find a courier in time to send a letter to the Shire. Everyone was busy, rooted to the mountains, and neither his gold nor his famous silver tongue could convince them to play messenger for a few days. He was staring down the maw of the mineshaft before he had a chance to curse his rotten luck. He wasn't the only one; Bofur had been roped in this time as well, as well as his brother and the Eric twins. 

It had been a week. At least he thought so; it was hard to tell, so far below ground, with no dawn and no dusk. He began to tell the time by how many turns he'd taken to mine the walls, and how many chances he'd got to slink back up the tunnel a few metres to collapse on a bedroll, on one of the shelves of rock where a vein of metal had been mined to exhaustion. Sleeping down here was nothing like the Shire, where the gentle snores of his lover and the owls outside lulled him to sleep. Here, he only had the rattling of mine carts and clink of metal on stone to keep him company. He wouldn't be allowed to make the journey to the surface (a day-long walk in its own right) until his shift was over. To console his sore conscience as he worked, he mentally drafted and re-drafted the lengthy apology letter he'd have to send to Aziraphale once his time was up. Maybe she hadn't written to him yet, but when she did, she'd worry when he didn't respond. He'd have to make it up to her. With the hefty payout from this godforsaken mine shift, he'd splash out on something nice to bring back for her, and he'd grovel at her door for forgiveness when he came limping back. She'd have every right to be angry, having been seemingly ignored for months on end. 

He just had to make it through this shift, and once he was out, he could fix it. He'd explain everything. She'd forgive him; he hoped to God she'd forgive him. 

Two weeks. Aziraphale wrung her hands together, chewing on her lip, staring at her empty letterbox. He had to have seen that letter by now. With a lump in her throat, she knew she couldn't keep giving him the benefit of the doubt. Unless something terrible had happened to him — in which case she'd have expected a letter from one of Crowley’s friends to break the news — there was no excuse for this. He... He'd ignored her letter. He'd rejected their baby. A cold, heavy dread settled in her gut, and she gripped the garden fence to steady herself as waves of rage and regret washed over her. That _bastard._ He was happy to claim he loved her while he had her underneath him, but the moment there were any consequences to it all, he turned his back. She gritted her teeth. She'd been used; used and left by the roadside when she stopped being fun. 

Furiously wiping her eyes, she turned and fled up the lane. If there was one person she could go to, one man who wouldn't scorn her too harshly... She knew where to find him. She threw herself against his door, banging on it, her lip quivering as heartbreak chased her down the garden path with its hot, rancid breath against her neck. The door opened to a very surprised hobbit. 

"Aziraphale? What's the matter?" Bilbo said, his brow furrowed as he craned his neck to look behind her, as if he might spot whoever had driven his cousin to tears and give them a serious talking-to. 

"I've made a mistake, Bilbo," she sobbed, hugging herself tightly, feeling dreadfully alone. "I've made a terrible mistake."

He blinked, confused, but ushered her inside. "Well — come in, and let's see if we can't sort it out between the two of us," he said, closing the door behind her. She shook her head.

"I'm not sure that's possible," she said, feeling his hand on her back, guiding her through to the living room, where she perched on the edge of an armchair. "I've really rather made a mess of things this time, dear cousin."

He sat across from her, watching her face intently. "Aziraphale. What on earth are you talking about?"

She sighed, rubbing her reddened eyes with the heel of her hand. She had to come clean. If she wanted someone to lean on, he had to know. "You... You recall my — my friend, the dwarf?" she rasped. His face twitched, souring, and he nodded. He already had his suspicions about where this was going. "We... He and I, we were more than... just friends."

"Okay," he said tentatively. 

"We were lovers," she confessed, casting her gaze down to the floor. Bilbo sighed, burying his head in his hands with a groan. Her stomach twisted. She raised her head to glare at him, hands curled to fists. "It wasn't as terribly scandalous as you think!"

"Wh — How is it not?" he cried, gesturing at the window and the wild roads beyond Hobbiton. "A vagrant dwarf, seducing an unmarried woman!"

 _"I thought he loved me!"_ she shrieked, startling him into silence. With a whimper, she slumped, her hands trembling. Her voice fell to a whisper. "I... _I_ loved him..."

He hung his head. That was harsh of him. It wasn't what she needed. He got up, gently putting a hand on her shoulder, rubbing her back as she wept. "I'm sorry, Aziraphale. It must be the Baggins in me. But I’m listening now, I promise," he said. He swallowed hard and steeled himself to ask: "What has he done?"

Aziraphale clasped her hands tightly together. "I'm carrying his child," she said. Bilbo inhaled sharply. "I sent him a letter two weeks ago. He... He didn't reply."

For a moment, the shock immobilised him, until a different expression darkened his brow. "That _scoundrel._ Who does he think he is? He had the finest woman in Hobbiton, and — and he treats you like _this!_ " he snapped, drawn up in indignation and immediately going very red in the face. Aziraphale looked up in surprise. 

"Now, Bilbo... it's not as if I had nothing to do with this, either," she said bitterly, another sob crawling up her throat. "Perhaps I'm the fool."

"Rubbish. You were more than he deserved," he said firmly, pulling her into a hug against his side. "But you've never needed a man to cope before, and you certainly don't need _him._ Whatever happens, if any woman can make it on her own, it's you — and you know where to find me, if you need a hand."

She rested her head on his shoulder, tears streaming from her eyes. She nodded. It did nothing to numb the pain, but... there was really no other choice. If Crowley didn't want to be a father, or a husband, then there was nothing she could've said or done to change that. "I'll do my best," she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I'll try."

"How fucking long has it been?" Crowley growled, collapsing against the stone wall with a groan, covering his eyes with one hand. 

Bofur settled beside him with an apologetic smile. Even his ever-sunny personality was starting to dim, down here with only the never-changing glow of the lanterns and the stale, sweat-damp air. "Around a month, I'd say," he said, and gestured around at the dim grey mineshaft. They'd been allowed a short break, but they'd be set back to work within the hour. "Halfway through, eh?"

"Half!" he said, groaning. "Fuck this job. Why did I have to be born a _dwarf?"_

Bofur jolted, hissing for him to be quiet and glancing around in paranoia. "Don't say that!" he said, grasping his arm as if hoping to jumpstart his will to live. "You wouldn't be Crowley if you weren't a dwarf!"

He huffed. "Yeah, and some people would be thankful."

"Aziraphale wouldn't," he said, raising his eyebrows knowingly. 

"Wish you'd stop doing that. I'll be lucky if she forgives me once I get back to her, after this," he said, yanking his arm back. "Far as she knows, I vanished off the face of the earth for two months. She'd have had a stack of letters from me in that time, usually."

"Ah, she's got a good heart, though. She'll see your side, I'm sure," he said. There was a long silence — or rather, there would've been, if not for the constant background drone of the mining operation. Crowley sighed deeply, running a finger over the lovers' braid on the side of his head...

"I can't keep this up for the rest of my life, Bofur," he said quietly, his voice as gravelly as the ground beneath his boots. He shook his head, closing his eyes, feeling his friend's worried gaze turn on him. Crowley's voice was tight with the urge to cry when he spoke again. "I can't be away from her like this again."

"Aye... thought you'd say that, eventually," he said quietly. There was resignation in his voice, but he wasn't angry, or disappointed. He softly clapped a hand onto Crowley's shoulder. 

"Soon as I'm paid after this shift, I'm packing my things, and I'm leaving," he said, taking a deep breath. "Whether she wants me or not... I don't belong here. Not anymore."

Aziraphale knew people would find out, eventually. They'd already started to notice her foul temper and reclusive habits — well, more reclusive than usual, anyway. For now, though, only Bilbo knew. He was her rock. He walked her to and from the local midwife's home — a wise old hobbit who counted herself very much above the townsfolk gossip, and passed no judgement — for checkups, throwing up a smokescreen, to make people believe they'd simply gone around for tea. He was poised to leap to her defence the moment anyone caught on to her situation. He rehearsed arguments with Lobelia under his breath as he did the dishes. He would come to blows with Otho before he’d let him say a cross word about Aziraphale and her baby. The last thing she needed was judgement. He ate dinner with her most nights a week, to shield her from the crushing loneliness. It was true, she was used to being independent, but that didn't make Crowley's betrayal any easier to bear. Eventually, though, Bilbo had to leave, and Aziraphale had to lie in bed chasing after sleep, staring at the ceiling in the dark which rapidly became a canvas for her roiling mind. 

She had to wonder why he'd done it. Why would Crowley bother to go through this whole charade? Perhaps he just wanted to prove that he could. That awful moniker, Silvertongue, should’ve been the first red flag. Maybe he wanted an ego boost; if he could do what all those hobbits couldn't, if he could lay the infamous Aziraphale Fork-tongue, he could give himself a well-earned pat on the back. Her chest burned with rage. She wished she could've said she hated him, but love didn't give up that easily. He still had her heart, and that tore her deeper than anything else. 

She wondered if she would ever see him again. If he might dare to show his face in Hobbiton after this, years later, when he thought it had all blown over. She imagined him sauntering down the road, bantering with his friends with that broad grin she knew so well, like nothing had happened. Like he was a stranger here. She'd have a young half-hobbit with her by then — not that she'd tell them anything about their father. If she had her way, they'd never even know his name. The last thing she wanted was her baby chasing after a man who'd abandoned them both without a second thought, nor so much as a _goodbye._

Her eyes snapped open as she realised that she'd never formally ended things, either. All Crowley had was a soppy, naive letter asking him to be hers; he had nothing to hit him back, nothing to give him pause, as if Aziraphale had just meekly accepted being spurned. She threw back the bedsheets, storming out of her room and lighting the lamp in her study. That would not do. She grabbed a pen, and began to write furiously on a sheet of parchment. If there were tear-spots and inkblots across the paper as she wrote, well, all the better. Maybe it would finally get the gravity of the situation through that thick skull of his. She sealed the letter carelessly with a blob of wax and no stamp, and set it aside to be sent the next morning. Hell hath no fury like a hobbit scorned — especially not _this_ hobbit.

Finally, _finally,_ Crowley saw light at the end of the tunnel. Literally. After the many hours trekking uphill through the mine shafts, at long last, he could see the glare of daylight up ahead. Fresh air rushed down towards them. A half-hearted cheer went up among the exhausted workers, and they quickened their pace to filter past the foreman who stamped their timesheets and signed them off, directing them to collect their pay from the treasurer's hut. 

"The torture never ends," Crowley grumbled, shuffling forwards in the queue at a painfully slow pace. He managed to get his timesheet stamped and collect his pay in just over an hour, and lazily stuffed it all into an interior pocket as he skulked off. He didn’t fancy talking to anyone right then. He could barely feel the sun on his face under all the layers of coal dust streaked across his face, and he barely had the energy to lift his feet from the ground. He was heading home, and packing his things. He wasn’t kidding to Bofur when he said he was leaving not long after that shift. He’d take a few days to recover, then he’d set out. It would be better to make his excuses to Aziraphale in person, anyway. 

Speaking of her... He paused by the post office, wondering how many times she’d written to him while he’d been below ground. He should check. At least then, he’d know some of what had gone on while he’d been away. He shouldered his way inside, engulfed in the smell of parchment and sound of shuffling paper. The dwarf behind the counter turned to Crowley’s pigeonhole before he’d even reached them, sliding two letters across to him. That was... odd. He thought he’d have more than that. Unless she’d been upset when he didn’t reply the first time, and didn’t bother after that. He supposed that was fair. No use wasting paper if he wasn’t talking back. He grunted his thanks, dropping a few copper coins on the desk before slinking back out the door to sit on the bench outside and read. 

He opened the first one, dated not long after he’d gone down below for his shift. The first paragraph immediately put him on-edge, with all that talk about life-changing news. Then, of course, he smiled. His heart felt warm. He ran his fingertip across one line, mouthing the words to himself: _I want you to stay. I would be with you forever, if you will have me._ That was exactly what he’d dreamed of hearing for months. He sighed dreamily, leaning on his palm as he read on to the second paragraph. 

He stopped breathing. Wait. Hang on. What? He gripped the paper tighter, sitting up straight and running over those words again and again, trying to figure out if he really was seeing those words: _I’m with child. It is yours, of course..._ Had he read that right? Was she really saying that — that she was going to have — ? He read on. His reeling thoughts were confirmed when she wrote about the baby, about _their_ baby, and Crowley knew he hadn’t read it wrong. She was pregnant. He’d gotten her pregnant. His heart stuck in his throat, and his mouth hung slack. Shit. Shit shit shit shit _shit!_ He’d been away for two whole months — what must she have thought, when he didn’t respond? Dread rushed down his spine. He tore open the next letter, not bothering to check the date on this one, just desperate to know what else she’d said.

_Crowley,_

_I can scarcely believe I was ever naive enough to place my trust in you. How DARE you. How dare you make me believe I meant anything to you. I would have at least expected a letter back, rejecting me outright, but no! I wasn’t even worth the ink, now you’ve had your fill of me. Coward. I have never in my life been more insulted, or more wounded._

_Consider this the letter you never bothered to send — the one which ended things between us. I intend to raise my baby to be twice the man their father was, not that you set the bar very high, and don’t you dare come crawling back in a few years’ time when you start to realise what you lost. Don’t even write back. The quicker I can forget you, the better. I hope your heart rots in your chest._

_Sincerely,_

_Miss A. Sackville-Baggins_

A tear slipped down Crowley’s cheek. This couldn’t be happening. It was all a mistake, a huge misunderstanding! She’d got it all wrong! He _did_ love her; he _did_ want the baby. He wanted it more desperately than he could say. As if pulled on puppet-strings, he jolted to his feet, almost tripping over himself as he bolted for the main gate. He couldn’t stop to pack his stuff. It didn’t matter anyway. He still had his supply pack from his shift on his back, and that would have to do, because he’d wasted enough time already. He couldn’t keep Aziraphale waiting so much as a second longer. He had to fix this. His breathing laboured as he made for the gate, barging past whoever stood in his way. It was only when two dwarves, shoulder to shoulder, barricaded the gate that he was forced to a halt.

“Hastur. Ligur,” he panted, trying to to slip past them, to no avail. “Let me through. I’ve got to go.”

“What’s so important?” Ligur said, curling his lip. 

“Must be up to no good, running out for no reason,” Hastur said, eyeing him suspiciously. Crowley cried out in frustration. These two had always had it out for him. 

“I don’t have time for this!” he shouted, drawing a crowd. Crowley was a familiar face around town, always causing trouble for his own amusement; nobody had ever seen him so deadly-serious before. Crowley’s expression darkened, a manic glint in his eye. Hastur flinched. “Look — no hard feelings, alright, lads?”

He swung for Ligur’s face before he had a chance to react, one stout punch sending him reeling off the path. Hastur shrieked and leapt back in surprise, and Crowley dove between them, sprinting beneath the gate, his boots scattering gravel as he slid down the incline. He had to get away. A cacophony of shouting and cursing went up behind him. He wouldn’t be welcome back here anytime soon, not after that performance. Oh well. He had a dream to chase, and he wasn’t letting it go that easily. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of footfalls, spotting figures emerging from the gate in pursuit, and snarled under his breath. Two guards were giving chase. 

At least he had a head-start. The land plateaued, reaching a stretch of earth with pallid, sparse grasses — the only place to graze ponies this far up in the mountains. Breathless, he burst into the stables, relieved to see a young stable-hand already saddling up a pony. 

“You, kid!” he barked, thrusting coins into his hand. He was lucky he’d been generously paid. “I’m taking the horse.”

The stable boy gawked at the coins in his hand. “But this is enough to buy ‘er outright, sir!” he cried, baffled, as Crowley swung himself into the saddle.

“Probably best — I’m not bringing her back,” he said, and urged the pony straight into a canter. The boy’s baffled voice rushed by, disappearing behind him as he burst free from the stable, catching sight of the soldiers marching to arrest him as he tugged on the reins, veering off down the valley path. He’d only punched his boss. They wouldn’t pursue him further than the foothills for that. He just had to hope that he wouldn’t be sent back, broken-hearted, by the end of all this...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m considering extending the chapter count by one for a fluffy epilogue. Thoughts?


	7. Amrâlimê

Bilbo was worried for his cousin. He feared the only reason she was looking after herself at all was for the sake of her baby. He'd never seen her like this. She was drawn and pale, always lost in her thoughts. He knew who she was thinking of. The more she spoke of that dwarf, even with venomous rage, the more he saw just how much she loved him. If she hadn't been so bloody proud, she might've gone to the mountains herself and dragged him back by his braids, but... well, she'd never liked confrontations, and the journey to the Blue Mountains was a gruelling trek, mostly uphill. It was no task for a pregnant woman. 

He'd invited her round for the afternoon again. She'd settled on his sofa, and he'd given her the last of his green tea. "I think I'm going to enjoy being an uncle," he said cheerfully, tempting the ghost of a smile onto her face. He settled into his armchair, clasping his hands over his belly. "I'll show the little one all the best woodland strolls, and all my maps and books. They'll be a clever tot, you know, if they've got even half of your brains."

She smiled, rubbing her tummy lightly. She wasn't certain, but she thought that perhaps there was a little bump there now, under the familiar comforting softness of her belly. "They'll run you ragged, I'm sure," she said wryly. "I am glad to have your help, dear, I must say. I can hardly imagine my brother would've done the same."

He scoffed. "Otho's not worth the bones he's built on. Even Lobelia has more nous than him," he said. "At least we both know that our estates will be going to a worthy heir, when we're gone."

She looked over in surprise. "What?"

"It's no secret to anyone that I won't be having children of my own, Aziraphale," he said with a knowing glance. She nodded, understanding without needing to say it; Bilbo had always preferred the company of other men. Such things could be hard to grasp for the petty-minded Shire folk, and Bilbo was too much of a Baggins to rock the boat that hard. Many times, Aziraphale could've wept for him, at the injustice of it all. "I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather leave my possessions to."

"You silly sod. You haven't even met them yet," she said, shaking her head, though she was touched by the sentiment. 

"But I know their mother well enough," he said, patting her arm. A flicker of warmth sparked in her chest, hearing that... She was going to be a mother. She needed to think of names, soon. She needed to think about how she was going to break the news to Otho and Lobelia. It was a lot to handle, but she knew Bilbo had her back. Even if Crowley had abandoned her, her cousin wouldn't. 

Crowley threw himself off the pony the instant he saw Aziraphale's garden fence. The horse puffed and panted, fur slick with sweat, as he threw himself through the gate. His heart hammered and bucked in his chest. Adrenaline made his hands tremble. He fell against the door, pounding his fists against it. _"AZIRAPHALE!"_ he screamed. "Aziraphale, please! Let me in! It's me, it's Crowley!"

No response. He let out a cry of frustration, peering through the window. "Aziraphale! Are you in there?" he shouted, trying to catch a flicker of motion, or a shadow, or anything that would tell him where she was.

"Well well well, look who it is," said a voice from behind. He whirled around, blood rushing in his ears, manic. His eyes landed on Mr Phon, just outside the garden fence. "I didn't know your kind was back again already."

"Where is she?" he snapped, storming back down the path. Mr Phon jumped, stumbling backwards, eyes wide, as the dwarf burst back through the gate. He loomed over him, eyes crazed and stone-dust still caking his face. Only sweat and tears had painted streaks through the soot, like crude war paint.

"In more respectable company!" Phon retorted, scrambling backwards, rushing for his own front door. 

"Where?" he said, chasing after him, to his horror, as he hid behind his half-closed door. 

"Bag-End, you brute! On the hill!" he cried. "With Bilbo!"

The door slammed, leaving Crowley frozen for a moment on the lane. Who... was _Bilbo?_ His lip began to curl as he turned his gaze up the verdant hill that loomed over the other houses. He hadn't heard the name, but he knew the men in Hobbiton would take any chance they could to secure Aziraphale's wealth for themselves. If this Bilbo character had found out about the baby, he could be blackmailing her. He could be offering to pretend that it was his child. Crowley stormed up the lane with a bloody-minded determination. He wasn't about to sit idly by while some shallow hobbit played father to _his_ baby. Over his dead body. 

Bilbo, for his part, hadn't heard the commotion at the edge of town. He was, however, emerging from his smial for a breath of fresh air and a smoke, which he'd never do while his pregnant cousin was beside him. Aziraphale had always frowned on his smoking habit. Perhaps he ought to watch his intake, now there was a little niece-or-nephew on the way. As he was pondering, his eyes finally caught on the dark, stocky figure stomping up the road, and for a moment his pipe hung slack in his mouth. He knew that shape — too big to be a hobbit, too small to be a man. _Bugger._ Crowley had come back to haunt them. He glanced back toward the smial where Aziraphale was doing her best to relax and, with a whine, he knew he had to go and face the dwarf. He couldn't let him back into her life just like that. He stood at his garden gate, puffed out his chest, and put on a brave face as Crowley drew near. The dwarf was wearing a dark expression that made Bilbo tremble on the inside, though he stood his ground. 

"You," Crowley snarled, jabbing a finger at him. His breathing still laboured from the panic and the long journey here. His hair, greasy with sweat and streaked with grime, hung in strands over his face. "Bilbo, is it?"

He nodded, skittishly glancing back and forth. "Indeed," he said, fidgeting on the spot.

"Where's Aziraphale?" he said, drawing himself up to his full height, towering over his small rival. 

Bilbo steeled himself. He had a funny feeling that, if he really wanted, Crowley could kill him with one hand, though that may have been the paranoid thoughts of a very intimidated gentlehobbit. "None of your business."

"See, that's where you're wrong," he said, flexing his hands, resisting the urge to grab the hobbit by his shirt and shake the answer out of him. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off, leaving him trembling and weak. "I need to talk to her."

"Well, maybe she doesn't want to talk to you! Hm? Have you considered that?" he said, straightening up even more as if trying to match his height. It wasn't working. Bilbo would've turned tail and run away, if he hadn't been the only thing standing between this thug and his cousin. From this angle, it was hard to figure out what she saw in him, besides the powerful physique. It frightened Bilbo to imagine what the dwarf might be capable of, especially where his cousin was concerned.

Fire raced along Crowley's veins. "For Mahal's sake, just let me see her!" he cried, his voice cracking. As if his creator had finally decided to take notice of him, the door of Bilbo's smial began to creak open, and a familiar pair of blue eyes peered around the edge. Crowley's breath caught. "Amrâlimê...?"

Aziraphale flinched, almost slamming the door and locking it shut, just hearing that word on his lips again. Instead, she took a breath. No more running away. No more hiding. She stepped out onto the path, to Bilbo's shock, and quietly made her way down to the gate. She looped her arm around Bilbo's, giving it a small squeeze. Crowley twitched, heart dropping. He'd thought extortion was more likely at first, but... but what if she really had found somebody else?

"I can take care of this," Bilbo offered, with a suspicious glance at the dwarf. "You don't have to — "

She cut him off with a small shake of her head. "Mr Crowley," Aziraphale said, her voice thin and strained as she tried to meet his eyes. "I didn't expect to see you again."

"I... I'm sorry," he choked out, unsure what else to say. The cold formality in her tone stung him. He finally looked down at himself, at his filthy clothes and matted hair, and hung his head. "This... This looks bad, I know..."

"Bad? Bad doesn't begin to cover it!" Aziraphale snapped, two months of pain and heartbreak finally breaking its banks. Bilbo patted her arm in solidarity. "I trusted you, you — you fiend! And this is how you repay me — ignoring my letters, only to come crawling back thinking I’ll forget how you abandoned me!”

"I didn't!" he cried desperately, beginning to reach out for her but thinking better of it. As he moved, exhaustion finally caught up to him, and his knee buckled. He fell with a grunt on burning muscles, and made no attempt to get back up. Begging on his knees seemed appropriate, at this point. "Please... Aziraphale... They put me on the mine shifts. I've been trapped in a cave for two bloody months! I never saw those letters until yesterday!"

"A likely story!" Bilbo said, clasping his hand over Aziraphale's and rubbing it in a soothing motion. 

Crowley turned on him, lip curled. "Sorry, who are you again?" he said, bristling. “Cause last time I checked it was _my_ baby she’s having.”

"I’m her cousin," he said bluntly, and some of the tension slid out of Crowley's shoulders.

"Uh. Right," he said, and ducked his head. Fuck. He was an idiot. Of course he wasn't some new beau of hers. He gulped, and looked back up at Aziraphale, searching her red-rimmed eyes for anything other than hurt and disdain. "Look... I know how it sounds, but I promise you, Aziraphale... if I'd known, I'd have come running the second those letters arrived. I love you. I _love_ you, I swear I do."

She looked down at him, stomach churning. She didn't know what to believe. She'd dismissed the thought that this was all some big misunderstanding as a naive fantasy, but... but what if it wasn't? What if he was telling the truth, and he wanted to be with her after all? "Crowley, I... I don't..." she began, her words catching in her throat. She didn't know what she even wanted to say. It was all too much. 

"I — I have proof!" Crowley cried, his voice rising an octave and scaring a few birds from a nearby tree as he rifled through his pockets. He produced a crumpled piece of paper, with an official-looking stamp and signature, and thrust it into her hand. She startled, as if she'd expected those calloused hands to pass right through her, as if it had all been a dream, as he pointed desperately at the dates printed on the paper. "My timesheet. Look! It's all there, in black and white — two months accounted for, underground in the mines!"

Aziraphale gawked at the paper. Bilbo leaned over to scrutinise it as well, but as far as he could see, it all looked genuine. Hm... He glanced suspiciously up at the dwarf, who was too intent on watching Aziraphale's reaction to notice. She was struggling to respond at all, dumbstruck by the sudden whiplash of having him come grovelling back. 

"A — Amrâlimê, I'm begging you... You've got to believe me. Would I lie to you?" he said, unsure if his words were getting through. Choking up, fearing at last that he was chasing something he'd already lost, he turned his attention down to her belly. "Even if... if it's too little, too late, then just, just... please don't take the baby away from me, as well. At least let me be a father."

Finally, she emerged from her stupor, blinking. She stared at his ash-and-tear streaked face, almost in disbelief. "What did you just say?"

"... at least let me be a father," he croaked, his eyes flicking down to her abdomen, where he could see the first hint of a bump. He’d committed her body to memory, detail by detail; he could see the extra swell in her belly, even after so long spent apart. He swallowed hard. "Even if you can’t bear to take me back."

Her face finally crumpled, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Oh, you — you bloody _fool_ of a dwarf!” she snapped, wrenching the gate open and pulling him against her, hugging his head tightly against her chest. If he hadn’t been kneeling already, he probably would’ve collapsed from the shock. He felt her chest rise and fall with ragged sobs, and he hugged her back fiercely, clutching at her clothes, and only realising his mistake when she pulled back to look down at him again. 

“Shit. Your clothes, I’m sorry,” he said, looking at the coal-dust smears on her pale clothes. “I, uh... I didn’t stop to wash before I came.”

Her hand gently traced his jaw. He couldn’t resist leaning into her touch with a sigh. “You really did drop everything for me, after all?” she said breathlessly. He nodded, eyes flickering shut. 

“In a heartbeat.”

Aziraphale stroked his hair, disgustingly filthy though it was, and almost jumped out of her skin when she heard Bilbo clear his throat behind them. They both sheepishly turned to look at him. “Ahem. I expect you’ll want some privacy, then, you two,” he said, avoiding eye contact and sucking on the end of his pipe to give the impression he wasn’t squirming with embarrassment. Public displays of affection weren’t the norm, and he could see a few passers-by on the slope below craning their necks, sensing something was afoot. “And a damn good bath for you, Mister Crowley.”

“Uh... yeah. That’s fair,” he said, wrinkling his nose as he looked down at himself. He uncomfortably adjusted the straps of his backpack. With a grunt, he gripped the fence to haul himself back to his feet, his limbs still trembling with exhaustion. He swayed on the spot and, for a moment, Aziraphale was worried he’d faint. He looked down at her with a cocktail of love, relief and probable dehydration. “Shall we...?”

“Come along, then,” she said, taking his hand with a flutter in her chest. She still wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t startle awake in bed in a moment. Together, they began the slow walk back toward the smial on the edge of town which, very soon, wouldn’t be so big and lonely anymore. 

Bofur just couldn’t understand it. He knew Crowley was reaching the end of his tether, but attacking Ligur and stealing a horse...? Well, he didn’t quite steal it, but it was a near thing, so he heard. It just didn’t make sense. The last he’d seen him, Crowley had vanished into the crowds after their mine shift, and the next thing he knew, there was a warrant out for his arrest. It was a minor offence, granted, but still... What could’ve driven him over the edge that fast? He’d at least hoped he’d say goodbye before he left!

It weighed on his mind for a long while as he whittled away at his jobs, wondering if he might spot a familiar hawkish face lurking on a street-corner one evening. He missed him. He’d not even stopped to pack his things. He’d just taken what he had on him — some clothes, some rations, his axe — and that was all. Everything else had been seized by the authorities when Crowley didn’t return after three months. Once six months had passed since he’d left, they took down the wanted poster in the square, and nobody even seemed to remember him once it was gone. Bofur could hardly believe it. Wasn’t anyone worried? One of their own had vanished without a trace. He’d have gone looking himself, but he didn’t have the funds to go running off like that, and... well, privately, he hoped Crowley had just gone back to Aziraphale. But if he did, why the violence? Why didn’t he give any warning? Why did he leave almost everything behind?

When the opportunity to go to another market in Hobbiton cropped up, he signed up right away. It had been over six months since Crowley left the mountains by then, so he didn’t hold out much hope, but he thought that he might stumble across him in the Shire somewhere. He noticed the light was on when they passed by Aziraphale’s home on the way into Hobbiton — at least he was fairly sure it was Aziraphale’s home — but it was near to dusk by then, and it would be rude to call that late. 

The next day, he got up early and slipped out of camp. The sun was up, and Hobbiton was just beginning to stir. He smiled at the people he saw on his way across town, and some of them smiled back. The dwarves had become a relatively familiar sight in the years they’d been coming. He didn’t expect it would last much longer, though. Things weren’t as tough in the mountains as they used to be, and soon the trips to the market would be more trouble than they were worth. It was sad, in a way. He’d miss this place, with its quaint little gardens and rolling verdant hills. It was a cheerful little slice of Middle Earth. 

He spotted the familiar home a while off, and almost tripped over his own feet. There was a man in the garden, scowling at a rose bush, only he was too tall to be a hobbit. Was that...? 

“Crowley?” he called, picking up the pace. 

The dwarf spun around with a grunt of surprise. “Bofur?” he said, as he drew level with the fence with a beaming grin. For once, Crowley returned it, reaching over the fence to give him a hug. They stood back, and slammed their foreheads together in a traditional dwarven greeting. “Haven’t seen you in months!”

“Aye, you buggered off without even saying goodbye!” he said, punching him on the shoulder, and they both laughed. “I’m just glad to see you looking well.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Something came up,” he said, glancing back at the smial. As he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, Bofur’s eyes landed on the ornate clasp holding one large, complicated braid against his scalp, which also sported a small cluster of new gold beads. The style of the marriage braids couldn’t be mistaken.

“You’re married?” he cried impulsively. Crowley winced. “And you didn’t invite any of us?”

“Bofur, mate, look — ” he said, crossing his arms with a heavy sigh. “I would’ve done, honestly, s’just... Stuff happened. It couldn’t wait. Bit of a whirlwind, y’know?”

His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to ask why, when a different voice cut him off. “Crowley, dear, where on _earth_ did you put my cardigan?” Aziraphale said, pushing the door open and waddling a few steps down the path before stopping short, one hand resting on her protruding belly. “Oh! Hello there. Terribly sorry, I didn’t realise we had company.”

Bofur gawked. He stared at the heavily pregnant woman, then at Crowley. He looked back at Aziraphale’s swollen midsection. He looked at Crowley. He did this at least three more times before Crowley rolled his eyes, shared a wry glance with his wife, and punched Bofur on the shoulder. “Oi, Bofur. This is the bit where you say something.”

He startled back to reality with a jubilant cry. “You’re going to be a _father!_ ” he shrieked, hugging him tightly over the fence again, then pulling back and vigorously shaking his hand. Aziraphale chuckled in amusement, rubbing her belly as she watched the excitable dwarf. “Ah, well, congratulations t’you both! I don’t blame you for running back like you did, now, Crowley — you’re a lucky man! What a fine life you’ve got. It couldn’t have happened to a better man, really, I’m just — I’m just so happy for you.”

He took off his hat, and began to wipe his eyes, growing sniffly and tearful. Crowley sighed in fond exasperation, wrapping an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder as he gathered himself. “You remember Bofur, right, amrâlimê? Old friend of mine,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

She hummed. “Yes, I do. He kept an eye on you for me, no doubt, while you were up in those mountains,” she said with a grin. 

“Aye, I did, ma’am,” Bofur said, chortling along. “You’ll be glad to know he behaved himself.”

“I have no doubt,” she said, resting her head on her husband’s shoulder, feeling his hand spread over her swollen belly and rub comforting circles with his thumb. “I would apologise for stealing him away from you, but I’m afraid I’m really not sorry at all.”

Crowley snorted in laughter. “Never change, amrâlimê,” he said. He subconsciously puffed out his chest as he told Bofur: “Don’t let the bow-tie and tartan fool you. Deep down, she’s just enough of a bastard to be a match for me.”

Aziraphale scoffed, rolling her eyes and giving him a light swat on the chest, which only made Crowley grin broader, tempting her to smile along with him. Bofur smirked. “You make a proud husband, Crowley,” he said, and nodded down at where their hands were entwined over her distended abdomen. “And that baby couldn’t ask for better parents.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said sincerely, and gestured behind her. “We were just about to have breakfast, if you’d care to join us.”

“Ah, no, I’d hate to impose...”

“Nonsense. We always have time for friends,” she said, pulling open the garden gate to usher him in. “I may be eating for two, but there’ll be plenty to go around. Crowley put on a marvellous spread.”

Bofur shot a cheeky glance at his friend. “Didn’t I tell you once, that you’d make a handsome house-husband?” 

“Don’t push your luck, Bofur,” he said, giving him a playful shove as they made their way back up the garden path that Crowley had almost broke his nose on, so many moons ago. “Just because I left doesn’t mean I forgot how to use an axe.”

“Now now, boys,” Aziraphale said, stepping inside. “Play nice.”

Crowley scoffed. “As if you play nice either!” he said sarcastically. 

“Well, I must keep you on your toes somehow,” she said wryly, leaving a spluttering dwarf in the entrance-hall, and Bofur tittering with laughter.


	8. Epilogue: Welcome (To The World)

Most hobbits would've panicked, if they'd woken up to a dwarf trying to break their door in. The unflappable Agnes Nutter, local midwife (and witch, by some accounts), simply sat up, shrugged on a dressing down, and made the short walk from her bedroom to the front door. It shuddered and jumped under the barrage of blows, and she rolled her eyes before twisting the key and opening it. Crowley barely managed to stop short of punching her in the face by mistake. He was shirtless, having not bothered to dress properly before leaving the smial, and wild-eyed, panting heavily. The moon hung in the black sky overhead. 

"Ag — Ah — She — Aziraphale — " he gasped, pointing desperately down the road which he'd just sprinted up in record time. Agnes raised a brow, unimpressed. 

"Her water broke," she said. She'd anticipated this ever since this anxious newlywed dwarf had accompanied his new wife to their first appointment with her as a married couple. He was the sort that would get in a flap.

Crowley nodded, panting too hard to form words. Dwarves were natural sprinters, but it was more of a cross-country run all the way across town to Agnes's home. They'd been snuggled up by the fire that night, dozing, while Crowley rubbed her belly, keeping them both warm and sleepy. Aziraphale finally gave in to her fatigue, and asked Crowley to help her up so they could go to bed. The moment he’d pulled her off the sofa, however... 

"She just stood up and then — and then — !" Crowley said, leaning on the doorframe as Agnes calmly gathered the necessary supplies. She’d kept most of it near the door, since she knew Aziraphale's baby would be arriving soon. 

"Come along then, Mr Crowley," she said, stepping out the door and locking it behind her. She took up a brisk running pace along the road. "Do keep up!"

Aziraphale was far calmer than her husband. She was in pain, yes, but she had a job to focus on here. With Agnes by her bedside, talking her through it all, she knew what she had to do. Crowley, however, had nothing to do but pace and chew his fist. Aziraphale, propped up by the bed-pillows, huffed and sighed as she felt another contraction. 

“Deep breaths, Crowley,” she said with a tinge of sarcasm. Agnes chuckled, tucking some clean towels under her hips, though it was a bit late to save the sheets. 

“I’m calm. I’m calm,” Crowley said, tense, coming to the bed to grasp Aziraphale’s hand with both of his own. “Can I do anything?”

“You did your bit nine months ago,” Agnes said dryly. Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to laugh. 

“Just stay with me, dear,” she said softly to her pouting husband. His face softened, feeling her palm gently pet his beard. He shuddered. That level of intimacy still felt new, even after so many months. “Just be with me.”

“Smaug himself couldn’t move me,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. She hissed, another contraction hitting, disrupting their tender moment. “Aziraphale? Amrâlimê?”

“I’m fine, I’m alright,” she said, sucking in a deep breath. 

Things progressed quickly after that. Agnes was perfectly focused, completely unbothered no matter how much Aziraphale shouted and cursed and, at one point, bit down on Crowley’s arm to muffle her screams. He only winced. He was lucky to be a dwarf; he wouldn’t even bruise. He was an anchor, grounding her firmly through the pain and exertion, as Agnes calmly told her to push. The whole lane would know she was giving birth by now. She’d been the talk of the town, when news of the baby finally got out just after the wedding, but Crowley was more than enough deterrent to keep the local gossips at bay. He often sat beside her on the porch, sharpening his axe, if ever she felt like being left alone by the neighbours. He was purposefully aloof and intimidating to anyone he caught glaring their way — he did, after all, tower over everyone else in the village. He was also awfully, insufferably smug whenever they came across any of Aziraphale’s old suitors, and Crowley spied his chance to chatter on and on and on at length about his marriage — he was having a baby with his new wife Aziraphale, did you know that, Mr Arch? Mr Phon? Mr Phael? He never let them forget. 

Aziraphale pushed, and shouted, and cursed Crowley’s name. He didn’t blame her. He felt a bit guilty, too, if he was honest. He murmured what little comfort he could offer. Then...

A shrill cry silenced them both. Aziraphale’s breath hitched, and she slumped back, shuddering and relieved. Crowley stared in amazement at the wriggling infant that Agnes lifted away from the bed, nipping the umbilical cord, and quickly wrapped in a soft towel. Crowley sat up a little, unnerved by her quiet dutiful way of working. The baby looked so small. He swallowed hard and asked: “Is he alright?”

Agnes looked up. “Excuse me?”

“The baby, is he okay? He looks tiny,” he asked, worry colouring his features. Agnes set her jaw, eyeing the dwarf with sudden distaste. If there was one thing she didn’t like, it was men who only cared for sons. She’d never met one who was so dead-set upon having a son that he assumed he couldn’t possibly have had a daughter, though. In fairness to Crowley, the vast majority of dwarves were men. Female dwarves were cherished and celebrated, and the birth of a daughter was a highly auspicious occasion. Crowley had never been very lucky in the genetic jackpot — cursed with a lanky, wiry build and embarrassingly short beard — so the thought of being anything more than average had never crossed his mind. 

Aziraphale sat up, with Crowley’s help, panting. “Did... Did I hear that right? Do we have a son?” she said with a weary smile, thinking that Crowley must’ve seen when Agnes wrapped the baby, who was now wriggling and crying in her arms. 

“No, Mrs Aziraphale, you don’t,” she said, eyeing Crowley with suspicion as she skirted around the other side of the bed to hand the baby to her mother. “It’s a girl — and actually, she’s rather large, for a hobbit.”

Crowley’s whole face went slack in shock. “A g... girl?” he said, eyes widening. He looked down at the squirming bundle nestled against Aziraphale’s chest. Agnes braced herself to grab the dwarf by his braids and pull him from the room if he even dared to voice disappointment — or worse, anger. 

“What’s the matter, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked tiredly, also briefly wondering if he really had his heart set on a baby boy. 

Crowley sniffled. “We... We’ve got a daughter,” he said, shuffling closer, wanting a better look at that little face, scrunched up in confusion as the world unfolded around her. “Mahal, I never thought — that someone like _me_ could — could even produce a daughter.”

Aziraphale looked at him, baffled. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m nothing special, amrâlimê,” he chuckled, nuzzling her hair. “Just look at her, a _girl!_ Our girl...”

Agnes and Aziraphale shared a confused look. Well, at least Crowley didn’t seem displeased by his daughter. In fact, he looked utterly besotted already. “I’m afraid we don’t understand what you mean, Mr Crowley,” Agnes finally spoke out. 

“Hm? Oh. D’you not — ? Uh... look, dwarf women are rare. Special,” he said, as if eager to wave off the questions and keep staring at the gurgling baby they’d brought into the world. “Up in the mountains, fathers of new daughters would go screaming it from the rooftops and celebrating as soon as their wives are back on their feet.”

“Well, this must be beginner’s luck, then,” Aziraphale laughed, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. Agnes finally relaxed and nodded, unobtrusively packing up her supplies now she knew that nothing was amiss. 

“I’ll wait outside, and let you two have some time with her,” she said, then nodded at Crowley. “Fetch me back when you’re ready to have her weighed and write her birth documents.”

She left, closing the door softly behind her. The room was quiet, but for Aziraphale’s breathing and the baby’s cries. Aziraphale bounced her gently, cooing, rubbing her head. “Isn’t she sweet?” she murmured. Crowley hummed his agreement, reaching around to touch his baby’s cheek, smiling as she gurgled and kicked under the blankets. “She needs a name.”

“Yeah,” he said, mouth twisting into a wry grin. “We probably should’ve thought of that before now.”

She laughed. “Probably,” she said, and looked at him. “I had actually rather hoped you’d give her a dwarven name.”

“You sure?” he said, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. 

“Very. You don’t have a last name, after all, so we’ll make it an even split — a Hobbit surname and a dwarven forename,” she said, snuggling closer to him. Crowley grunted, a little flustered, and thought on it for a moment. He mentally dredged his family tree, dismissing each name in turn as he remembered some petty reason he didn’t like that particular family member. He quickly abandoned that method. He looked closely at his baby’s face, and it occurred to him that she deserved a name all of her own — not one Crowley had lazily pilfered off a family member she’d likely never meet. There was only one name that came to mind, one that he never expected to be lucky enough to bestow upon anything more important than a pony. 

“What about Freddie?” he said, still half-expecting her to wrinkle her nose in distaste right away. Instead, Aziraphale smiled, leaning down to nuzzle her baby with her nose. 

“Hello, there, Freddie,” she said, and a small hand popped free from the blankets to touch her mother’s face. Crowley held his wife and daughter close against his chest, heart blooming with pride, blinking back tears. “Welcome to the world, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The return of baby Freddie! Anyone who’s read a certain other infamous fic of mine will already have met her before, in another life. The name fits so beautifully with the Good Omens ‘verse and its Queen obsession (credit to CrazyBeCat for suggesting it in the first place), but I’ve also come up with some interesting reasons for this name to crop up again, relating to Khuzdul, too!
> 
> Khuzdul is based on Hebrew, and much like that language, many of their words are formed by a ‘triconsonantal root’, which is three consonants that carry a particular general meaning, and the specific meaning/use of the word is given by the arrangement of vowels around that root. To give an actual example from Biblical Hebrew, the root MLK carries a general meaning of kingship or ruling, and the word (roughly transliterated*) melek means king, whereas malkah means queen.
> 
> That means that Crowley’s actual dwarfish name would be more accurately transliterated, hypothetically, as “Croli” (or perhaps “Kroli”), with the triconsonantal root being CRL (or KRL), and the characteristic ending suffix being —i. Many dwarven names have an ending which is passed down through families and identifies family groups. Take, for example, Balin and Dwalin, sons of Fundin, who all share the family suffix —in. Therefore, Crowley is following a dwarven naming convention by naming his daughter Freddie, which would have the root FRD with the hereditary suffix —i, from Croli (or Kroli), making the name “Fredi” in its original transliterated khuzdul (in Hebrew some letters can be doubled, and I’m not sure if it’s the same in khuzdul but if it is, an alternate transliteration could also be Freddi)
> 
> *transliterate just means to write out a word which uses one alphabet in letters from a different alphabet; in this case, I’m writing the Hebrew letters mem, segol, lamed and kaf which correspond roughly to the English M, E, L and K
> 
> ... I can’t believe I just pulled a Tolkien on you all by telling you in the appendix that the dwarf you’ve been reading about for 8 chapters is actually called something different


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